THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


THE  NUN 


BOOKS    BY    RENE    BAZIN 

PUBLISHED  BY  CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


The  Nun $1.00 

(L'lsolcSe) 

The  Coming  Harvest $1.25 

(Le  Bl<§  qui  Lfeve) 

Redemption $1.25 

(De  toute  son  Ame) 


THE  NUN 

(L'ISOLEE) 


FROM  THE  FRENCH   OF 

RENE    BAZIN 

OF  THE  FRENCH   ACADEMY 


FIFTH    EDITION 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS 
1 908 


Published  March,  1908 


Contents 


I. 

THE  EVENING  IN  JUNE... 


H. 

VOCATION 31 

III. 

VIA  DOLOROSA 96 

IV. 

THE  BEARERS  OF  PASCALE'S  BURDEW        155 

V. 

PASCALS *92 


627422 


THE     NUN. 


i. 


THE  EVENING  IN  JUNE. 

"SISTER  PASCALE,  your  eyes  are  red." 

"Not  that  I've  been  crying.  There's  a  chill 
in  the  wind  to-night." 

"Yes,  and  there  was  hard  work  in  the  school 
to-day.  You  will  be  killing  yourself,  Sister 
Pascale." 

A  young,  unsteady  voice,  with  gaps  in  it  caused 
by  physical  fatigue,  replied: 

"They  are  such  darlings,  my  little  girls;  and 
yet,  in  a  week,  not  one  of  them  would  think  of 
me  again — nor,  perhaps,  would  any  one  in  the 
wide  world."  And  the  speaker  laughed. 

A  murmur  of  words,  hardly  articulate,  obvi- 
ously often  rehearsed,  seemed  to  surround  and 
envelop  the  young  Sister  with  their  tenderness. 
"Child!  when  will  you  be  rational?  You  are 
trying  to  get  us  to  say  how  much  we  care  for 
you." 

"Who  would  think  this  baby  was  twenty-three 
to-day?" 


2  THE  NUN 

"Yes,  this  very  day,  the  16th  of  June,  1902." 

" There,  you  see,  we  know  all  about  your  age!" 

A  pleasure  in  merely  being  together,  in  being 

quiet,  in  loving  one  another  apart,   visited  all 

these  hearts.    And  she  who  was  hi  authority, 

raising  her  eyes  beyond  the  enclosing  courtyard, 

and  beyond  the  sky-line  of  distant  houses,  said: 

"It  is  good  to  breathe.    People  are  fond  of 

libelling  the  air  of  our  smoky  Lyons,  but  it  does 

really  smell  of  the  country;   don't  you  think  it 

does?" 

In  a  few  moments'  silence,  all  eyes  were  hf ted ; 
the  sick  or  weary  breast  breathed  in  that  joy  of 
summer  which  the  city  had  not  quite  absorbed 
or  destroyed.  These  souls,  inspired  to  worship 
and  to  the  giving  of  thanks  on  behalf  of  the  world, 
offered  their  gratitude  in  silence. 

They  were  five  women — five  nuns,  dressed  in 
blue  homespun,  white  frontlet,  and  black  veil, 
within  the  enclosure  of  a  school,  where  an  alley, 
paved  with  cement  and  sheltered  by  a  roof,  ran 
the  whole  length  of  the  playground.  They  kept 
for  the  use  of  their  own  "Community"  this  nar- 
row retreat,  and  their  habit  was  to  gather  there 
in  their  free  time,  when,  as  now,  the  school- 
children were  gone.  They  felt  more  ultimate 
there  and  also  better  screened  from  the  curious 
eyes  of  neighbours ;  for  the  left  wing  of  the  house, 
towards  the  east,  was  nearly  surrounded  by  build- 
ings. Five  women :  and  one  only  was  not  young. 
She  was  called  Sister  Justine,  and  had  held  office 
as  Superior  for  five-and- twenty  years:  a  woman 
built  for  action,  square,  broad-hipped,  with  a 


THE  NUN  3 

large  face,  a  kind,  round  nose,  a  skin  paled  by 
habitual  privation  of  fresh  air,  eyes  brown  and 
full  of  cheerful  life,  eyelids  that  could  open  or  close 
indeed,  but  knew  no  other  trick,  and  had  never 
given  a  subtle  expression  or  a  shade  of  meaning 
to  any  glance  of  hers.  A  white  hair  or  two 
sprouted  on  her  upper  lip  and  on  her  chin:  her 
few  wrinkles  were  deep  within  her  flesh;  a  silver 
lock  of  hair,  now  and  then  escaping  from  a  frontlet 
carelessly  put  on,  showed  her  to  be  aged  about 
sixty  years. 

Had  Sister  Justine  remained  in  her  native 
place  with  her  parents,  working  people  of  Colmar, 
she  would  have  become  what  the  peasants  call 
a  "  godmother,"  a  housewife  dominant  in  her  own 
home,  and,  not  seldom,  hi  a  neighbour's ;  a  man- 
aging woman,  somewhat  feared,  but  always  benef- 
icent. But  at  twenty  she  had  entered  the 
congregation  of  St.  Hildegarde,  which  has  its 
Mother-House  at  Clermont-Ferrand,  and  since 
then  had  returned  once  only  to  Alsace,  on  the  eve 
of  the  war  of  1870.  In  her  was  evident  the  war- 
like and  frontier-guarding  blood  of  her  race. 
Quick  in  decision,  brief  in  speech,  never  rescinding 
an  order,  clear  in  intelligence,  ready  in  reply,  more 
courageous  than  the  average  of  men,  she  had 
never  ceased  to  be  the  counsellor  and  the  support 
of  a  throng  that  constantly  shifted  and  changed 
about  her.  Children,  parents,  the  random  poor, 
with  weaknesses,  grievances,  and  sufferings  of 
many  kinds — very  secret  as  well  as  very  common 
—had  confidence  in  her  strength,  well  aware  of 
her  tenderness  for  those  obscure  and  insignificant 


4 

ones  of  the  social  world  who  recognised  in  her  one 
of  themselves,  yet  a  representative  whose  dignity 
they  shared.  When  they  were  at  a  loss  for  the 
thing  to  be  done,  they  were  wont  to  say,  "Let's 
go  to  Sister  Justine." 

And  they  found  her  always  ready  to  set  out, 
far  more  intent  upon  the  remedy  than  curious 
about  the  evil,  never  dismayed,  and  never  use- 
lessly given  over  to  emotion.  In  her  gown  of 
homespun  blue,  of  which  the  sleeves  were  gener- 
ally turned  back,  like  those  of  a  field-worker,  in 
her  white  frontlet  and  black  veil,  she  would  have 
travelled  round  the  world  with  a  good  will.  But 
her  journey  was  the  daily  circle  of  the  classes  in 
her  school  and  of  some  poor  houses  in  its  neigh- 
bourhood. She  gave  the  lessons  to  the  tall  girls, 
those  who  were  in  their  last  school  year.  Among 
the  nuns  also  she  was  the  adviser,  the  prop,  the 
shelter.  In  the  town  she  was  summoned  hither 
and  thither  by  those  who  did  not  so  much  as  know 
her.  Her  name  was  called  upon  in  place  of  the 
name  of  Providence,  which  was  not  invoked.  And 
in  this  rough  work  she  did  not  wear  out,  so  calm 
was  she  as  well  as  alert,  going,  going,  on  her  strong, 
short  legs.  " Never  to  belong  to  yourself,"  said 
she;  "that  is  the  way  never  to  be  tired." 

After  Sister  Justine  the  eldest  of  the  Sisters 
was  not  yet  forty  years  old;  and  those  who  saw 
her  at  a  distance,  or  had  a  brief  view  of  her, 
thought  her  much  younger.  Slender  and  tall, 
almost  un wrinkled,  her  eyes  often  cast  down,  her 
lips  delicate  and  almost  blue,  so  pale  they  were, 
she  bore  something  in  her  face  and  in  her  attitude 


THE  NUN  5 

that  was  haughty,  virginal,  and  austere.  She 
resembled,  with  the  addition  of  reality  and  life, 
a  woman-martyr  figured  in  a  stained-glass  window, 
rigid,  upright,  with  one  hand  upon  a  sword,  sym- 
bol of  her  strength,  of  her  death,  and  of  her 
honour.  When  she  turned  those  eyes  upon 
another — even  if  this  were  a  child — the  impression 
was  not  softened.  The  eyes  of  Sister  Danielle, 
exceedingly  dark  under  lovely  eyebrows,  expressed 
a  soul  full  of  self-diffidence,  closely  curbed,  and  so 
exacting  towards  itself  that  is  was  thought  to 
be  exacting  towards  others.  But  this  woman  had 
tamed  herself ;  she  went  in  fear,  despite  her  blame- 
less experience;  she  was  a  wise  virgin  anxiously 
watching  for  any  wind  that  might  breathe  upon 
her  lamp. 

Almost  tragic  of  aspect,  she  bore  the  traces  of 
the  cost  at  which  certain  spirits  overcome  nature 
by  will.  She  had  an  ardent  heart;  and  its  en- 
thusiasm now  was  manifest  only  hi  the  eagerness 
of  duty.  Those  who  watched  her  knew  her  to  be 
capable  of  heroism,  and  sensitively  bent  on  keeping 
that  capacity  secret.  To  her  the  Superior  had 
entrusted  the  second  class  and  the  accounts  of  the 
Community;  but  she  might  have  been  charged 
with  the  cooking,  or  the  washing,  or  another  task 
of  any  kind.  She  was  chosen  to  accompany 
Sister  Justine  when  a  ceremonial  visit  had  to  be 
paid  to  the  Cardinal  Archbishop  of  Lyons,  or  to 
the  Abbe  Le  Suet,  "  Monsieur  le  Superieur"  of 
the  Order.  And  as  all  she  did  was  done  with 
scrupulous  exactitude,  Sister  Danielle  did  not 
escape  the  sisterly  admiration  of  the  observant 


6  THE  NUN 

and  tender  witnesses  in  whose  company  she  lived. 
She  too  watched,  but  her  care  was  that  she  should 
not  be  too  dearly  loved  for  fear  of  the  love  of  self 
that  might  ensue.  Nor  even  in  intimate  inter- 
course, in  conversation  on  summer  evenings,  in  the 
courtyard  and  the  playground,  did  she  relax  her 
reserve ;  she  asked  few  questions,  she  smiled  little. 

When  she  was  alone — that  is,  when  she  was  at 
prayer — this  close  spirit  was  unlocked,  and  the 
fire  therein  took  flight  in  flame,  went  up  to  God. 
Danielle  then  let  loose  her  love  upon  things  visible 
and  invisible,  upon  the  children  of  her  religious 
adoption,  upon  the  miseries  she  knew  and  those 
she  knew  not,  in  tears  and  cries  and  the  clamour 
of  her  prayer.  And  this  was  but  a  child  of  poor 
people,  born  in  a  peasant  family  of  day-labourers 
in  that  country  of  Correse,  where  the  chestnut 
trees  shade  the  soil  from  a  southern  sun.  Over 
the  door  of  her  cell,  on  the  inner  side,  she  had  writ- 
ten, Libenter  et  fortiter.  The  daily  recitation  of  the 
Office  had  taught  the  Sisters  some  little  Latin. 

A  peasant  also  was  the  little  Sister  Leonide, 
but  of  another  province.  She  was  the  child  of 
the  Lyons  country  side,  of  the  district  of  Lozanne, 
where  large  villages  lift  on  vine-clad  hills  their 
wide,  tiled  roofs  like  a  heap  of  hollow  shells.  She 
had  laboured,  she  had  dug,  she  had  reaped,  she 
had  gathered  the  vintage,  putting  all  the  strength 
she  had  into  her  daily  toil ;  and  now  she  prolonged, 
in  the  religious  dress,  her  lowly  and  almost  entirely 
manual  labour,  keeping  the  lamps  in  order,  sweep- 
ing out  the  class-rooms,  and  teaching  the  alphabet 
on  Sundays  to  the  little  pupils,  the  very  young 


THE  NUN  7 

children  whom  the  mothers  of  the  district,  bent 
on  a  country  excursion,  on  the  streets,  or  on  a 
dance,  brought  to  the  Sisters  of  St.  Hildegarde 
for  the  day.  She  was  short  and  swarthy,  with 
two  red  patches  on  her  cheeks — "  kisses  of  the 
kitchen  range,"  she  called  them;  and  although 
she  was  not  yet  thirty,  all  her  teeth  were  gone. 
Her  disfigured  and  discoloured  lips  hardly  used 
any  words  but  these :  ' '  Yes,  Sister  " ;  ' '  Of  course 
I  will,  Sister";  "Well,  come  in,  little  one";  "Sit 
down,  ma'am,  I'll  run  and  tell  the  Superior." 
Entirely  simple,  afraid  of  nothing,  obedient  for 
the  sake  of  love,  freely  self-forgetful,  she  might 
have  written  over  her  cell  door,  Ecce  ancilla 
Domini.  But  she  had  not  thought  of  it.  All 
Lyons  knew  her;  the  tram-conductors — some  of 
them — used  to  take  her  by  the  arm  to  help  her  in 
when  she  came  with  her  basket  full  of  potatoes 
and  carrots  from  the  market  on  the  Quai  Saint 
Antoine.  "Up,  little  Mother,  jump!"  they  said. 
She  would  reply:  "Only  little  Sister,  as  yet," 
and  they  laughed. 

The  two  other  nuns  came  from  a  far  different 
environment;  they  were  Sister  Edwige,  born  at 
Blois,  daughter  of  a  station-master  in  the  Indre- 
et-Loire  country,  and  Sister  Pascale,  daughter 
of  a  Lyons  silk-weaver.  These  two  were  earnest 
friends.  The  one  concealed  her  preference  by 
reason  of  universal  charity,  the  other  showed  it 
by  reason  of  weakness.  To  be  near  Sister  Edwige, 
to  see  her,  and  to  hear  her,  was  to  be  aware  of  all 
that  is  uttered  in  the  word  Mercy.  The  eternal 
compassion  had  its  abode  in  her.  Kindness  with- 


8  THE  NUN 

out  limit,  without  weariness,  without  distinction 
of  persons,  went  forth  from  her  face  and  from  her 
hands.  It  was  manifest  in  her  grace  of  movement, 
in  the  clear  form  of  her  cheek,  in  her  limpid  eyes 
which  proffered  respect,  admiration,  devotion, 
pity — and  always  love;  soft  eyes,  ignorant  of  de- 
ceit, hatred,  or  so  much  as  irony;  eyes  like  the 
eyes  of  a  child  to  whom  had  been  added  the  knowl- 
edge of  sorrow ;  eyes  so  lovely,  and  of  a  tenderness 
so  chaste  and  wide,  that  the  Sisters  said,  "Sister 
Edwige's  eyes  give  us  God." 

Hers  was  the  primary  class  in  the  school,  that 
of  the  children  six  and  seven  years  old.  She  had 
the  motherhood  of  a  virginal  spirit,  and  others 
loved  her;  shy  people,  discouraged  ones,  unpromis- 
ing ones,  those  who  needed  special  protection — 
all,  having  once  seen  Sister  Edwige,  sought  her. 
She  had  very  ready  and  accessible  tears.  She 
looked  as  though  she  were  reaping  and  gathering 
love  on  behalf  of  the  supernal  mercy  visible  in  her. 
One  might  well  have  said  to  her:  " Raise  your 
hand  over  us,  and  we  shall  be  healed."  Many  had 
stammered  words  of  somewhat  this  meaning. 
But  at  once  her  front  was  darkened,  her  rays 
withdrawn,  and  the  charm  that  brought  her  so 
much  love  had  vanished.  She  seldom  left  the 
house,  besides,  having  plenty  of  work  in  the 
school. 

Her  personal  distinction  and  her  youth,  as 
much  as  her  goodness,  had  gained  her  the  heart 
of  the  youngest  of  the  Sisterhood,  Pascale.  Like 
all  very  intelligent  girls  born  in  the  labouring 
classes  of  French  towns,  Sister  Pascale  had  a  taste 


THE  NUN  9 

for  good  manners,  an  aristocratic  sense  whereby  she 
perceived,  in  the  street,  in  a  conversation,  in 
the  design  of  a  piece  of  decoration — everywhere, 
the  character  of  the  elegant,  of  the  appropriate, 
of  the  distinctively  French.  She  seldom  made  mis- 
takes, and  this  critical  taste  had  been  entangled 
with  a  great  deal  of  envy  in  the  days  before  her 
entry  into  the  Convent.  She  had  been  a  pretty 
girl  in  the  world — not  a  beautiful  one,  but  a 
pretty  one,  with  partly  cendre,  partly  tawny,  fair 
hair,  light  eyes  with  points  of  lively  gold — eyes 
that  brightened  with  every  word,  whether  heard 
or  spoken,  a  rather  short  nose,  firm,  youthful 
cheeks  that  were  rounded  when  she  laughed,  very 
red,  fresh  and  mobile  mouth.  She  was  one  of 
those  pale  women  who  have  been  blooming  once, 
and  would  easily  bloom  again.  She  had  no  colour, 
and  there  was  always  a  slight  darkness,  beneath 
her  eyes.  Her  laugh  was  ready ;  her  figure  slender 
and  flexible.  Even  under  her  heavy  homespun 
Sister  Pascale  looked  as  though  she  loved  running 
and  would  have  used  her  pupils'  skipping-rope  had 
there  been  no  one  to  see.  There  was  much  of  the 
child  in  her,  of  the  Southern  French  child,  careless 
of  to-morrow  as  those  are  who  have  kept  nothing 
of  yesterday;  and  she  had  been  secured  from  all 
peril  by  the  example  and  traditions  of  her  family, 
people  as  steadfast  as  the  Lyons  rocks.  The 
Convent  had  not  robbed  her  of  her  frank  utterance, 
her  vivacity,  and  her  exceeding  sensibility.  She 
could  not  endure  to  see  blood,  nor  to  dress  an 
abscess,  nor  to  hear  an  operation  detailed.  In 
the  novitiate  her  trainers  had  tried  to  cure  the 


10  THE  NUN 

little  town  girl  of  these  absurdities,  but  without 
success.  Her  pleasures  also  seemed  to  them  ex- 
cessive— her  delight  in  a  flower,  in  the  light  of  a 
lovely  day,  in  a  sunset,  or  in  a  beautiful  child. 
She  much  preferred  those  of  her  pupils  who  were 
pretty,  or  who  were  well  dressed,  or,  at  least,  better 
dressed  than  the  others ;  and  of  this  fault  she  was 
wont  to  accuse  herself.  For  frankness  dwelt  in 
this  soul  which  was  on  the  way  towards  peace,  but 
did  not  yet  possess  it,  and  perhaps  would  never 
possess  it  wholly.  The  Sisterhood  loved  her  for 
her  youth,  for  her  spirit,  for  her  great  sincerity, 
and  also  for  her  weakness,  and  for  the  sake  of  the 
help  which,  ingenuously  and  often,  this  little  com- 
panion in  the  sisterly  life  asked  of  their  graver 
years. 

The  five  nuns  of  St.  Hildegarde  lived  together 
in  a  house  noisy  by  day,  silent  at  night-fall.  All 
were  over-worked.  The  daily  recitation  of  the 
Office  after  evening  school,  the  meditation  and 
Mass  of  every  morning,  the  care  of  a  certain  num- 
ber of  pupils  who  took  their  mid-day  meal  within 
the  Convent,  the  correction  of  school  exercises, 
and  then — for  the  elder  ones  especially — the  in- 
numerable affairs  of  the  poorer  quarter  of  the  city 
to  which  they  ministered,  and  in  which  their  good- 
will was  called  upon  to  excess,  to  exhaustion— 
these  things  filled  all  the  days,  the  months,  the 
years.  Throughout  this  incessant  occupation,  in 
this  forgetfulness  of  self,  and  in  this  poverty,  they 
enjoyed  the  sweetness,  little  known  outside  con- 
vent walls,  that  comes  of  companionship — albeit 
often  silent — with  elect  ones,  beings  entirely 


THE  NUN  11 

worthy  of  love,  whose  energies  are  all  at  the  com- 
mand of  charity.  They  formed  a  group  more 
closely  united  than  a  family;  none  the  less  had 
they  gathered  from  dissimilar  places  and  condi- 
tions, and  for  causes  that  differed  also:  Sister 
Justine  urged  by  her  faith  and  by  her  love  of 
action;  Sister  Danielle  moved  by  her  zeal  for 
spiritual  perfection  and  drawn  by  the  invisible; 
Sister  Edwige  called  by  her  love  for  the  poor;  Sis- 
ter Leonide  by  her  humility;  Sister  Pascale  led 
by  her  distrust  of  herself  and  by  her  desire  that 
among  saints,  and  in  face  of  their  example,  her 
days  might  be  counted  in  unassailable  security. 

There  was  among  them  a  complete  liberty; 
they  heard  each  other,  without  surprise,  speak 
according  to  individual  temperament  and  under 
the  impulse  of  separate  character. 

On  this  evening  in  June  they  had  returned 
from  the  service  of  Benediction  in  the  Church  of 
Saint  Pontique.  The  apse  of  the  church  was  but 
a  few  steps  from  their  door,  on  a  place  planted 
with  two  rows  of  plane-trees.  When  they  had 
looked  towards  the  open  east,  over  the  little  wall 
of  the  playground,  as  the  Superior  had  done,  three 
of  them  began  their  walk  up  and  down  the  court- 
yard, Sister  Danielle  and  Sister  Leonide  flanking 
the  stout  Superior. 

The  other  two  did  not  at  once  leave  the  sight 
before  their  eyes.  It  was  not  very  beautiful ;  but 
Sister  Edwige  looked,  with  eyes  made  tender  by 
admiration,  at  the  lower  sky,  at  the  tops  of  poplars 
planted  along  the  Rhone  and  visible  between 
distant  houses,  and  she  felt  the  sweetness  which 


12  THE  NUN 

the  sun's  farewell  imparts  to  all  things  for  a 
moment,  penetrating  them  and  rendering  them 
all  glorious  and  translucent.  The  other  nun, 
Pascale,  the  youngest,  turned  her  head  slowly  to 
watch  the  fading  of  the  sky-line  of  houses  and  the 
coming,  in  the  hollows  of  windows,  of  lights  by 
twos  and  threes,  and  the  vague  movement  of  life 
within.  On  all  hands  rose  the  noise  of  labours 
drawing  to  a  close ;  like  the  sound  of  the  country, 
this  city  clamour  was  composed  of  actions  and 
cries  and  calls,  of  footsteps  on  the  pavements, 
voices  in  the  lanes,  hammerings  growing  fewer  and 
longer  between,  the  scream  of  a  siren  giving  the 
signal  of  departure  on  the  river,  resounding  noises 
of  timber  on  the  wharves — all  gradually  absorbed 
by  the  prodigious  silence  settling  over  the  city 
and  seizing  it  by  increasing  and  enlarging  inter- 
vals. Sister  Pascale  was  thinking  of  things  gone 
by,  and  of  the  children  scattered  through  the  city 
spaces. 

Night  came,  with  its  deceptive  peace;  for 
nothing  had  stopped  but  labour  only:  not  pain, 
nor  poverty,  nor  hatred,  nor  vice.  Only  a  few 
sequestered  and  victorious  spirits  had  peace. 

''Are  you  feeling  the  heat  of  this  long  day,  Sister 
Pascale?"  asked  Sister  Edwige.  "It  was  all  but 
unbearable  in  my  class."  And  she  added,  with 
a  secret  thrill  of  joy:  "How  gently  it  comes  to 
an  end!"  As  she  said  it,  she  thought  of  the  end 
of  her  youth  or  of  her  life. 

"No,"  replied  the  other;  "I  am  thinking  of  my 
father,  who  used  to  stop  his  loom  at  this  time  of 
the  evening." 


THE  NUN  13 

"Poor  child!  And  how  long  ago  did  you  lose 
him?" 

"Four  weeks.  He  died  on  the  sixteenth  of 
May." 

The  compassionate  voice  of  Sister  Edwige  re- 
sumed hastily:  "Oh,  I  have  not  kept  count,  but 
I  have  not  forgotten  my  promise  for  a  single  day 
—not  one.  I  only  forgot  the  date." 

Behind  them,  between  them,  a  well-known 
voice,  more  decided  than  theirs,  interrupted: 
"Come  with  the  others,  will  you?" 

It  was  Sister  Danielle. 

Sister  Edwige  and  Sister  Pascale  with  the  same 
movement  turned  and  joined  the  three  in  their 
exercise,  walking  back  to  the  wall  on  the  right, 
then  turning  in  their  up  and  down  walk  so  as  to 
face  the  Superior,  Sister  Leonide,  and  Sister 
Danielle.  The  way  was  narrow,  and  did  not  allow 
five  to  go  abreast. 

"We  are  talking,"  said  Sister  Justine,  "of  the 
answers  the  children  give  us.  Those  who  come 
from  the  secular  schools  don't  know  a  word  of 
catechism  or  of  Scripture.  And  those  who  come 
straight  from  home  hardly  know  more." 

"Would  you  believe  it,"  cried  Sister  Leonide 
with  a  laugh;  "A  new  girl  came  a  fortnight  ago 
into  the  little  ones'  class,  and  this  is  what  she  said. 
I  asked  her  what  was  the  first  man's  name,  and 
she  said  'Adam.'  And  the  first  woman's  name? 
'Ad  le.'  What  did  she  do?  What  was  her  sin? 
'Oh,  I  know,  Sister,  she  sneaked  an  apple.'" 

There  were  a  few  smiles,  but  only  the  little 
peasant  nun  who  told  the  story  laughed  out,  with 


14  THE  NUN 

a  laugh  that  rang  across  the  court-yard  and  over 
the  wall. 

"It  is  not  such  a  very  bad  answer,"  said  Sister 
Justine.  "If  they  blundered  only  over  the  name 
of  the  first  woman,  there  would  not  be  much  harm 
done.  But  some  are  asked  who  is  Christ,  and  say 
they  don't  know — there's  harm  enough  there,  and 
fault  enough." 

" Whose  fault?"  asked  a  serious  voice. 

Two  or  three  veils  turned  towards  the  speaker. 
It  was  Sister  Danielle.  There  was  no  reply,  but 
the  name  of  Christ  falling  on  the  pure  ground  of 
these  hearts,  rose  again,  and  was  rising  higher  as 
they  spoke  or  listened : 

"Laetitia  Bernier  came  this  morning  in  a  new 
hat  with  feathers  worth  at  least " 

Sister  Justine,  not  well  versed  in  the  fashions, 
considered  for  a  moment,  and  then,  remembering 
a  ticket  seen  in  a  shop-window,  finished  her 
sentence:  "Worth  at  least  four  francs  ninety- 
five,"  said  she. 

"That's  not  dear  for  a  hat,"  said  Sister  Leonide, 
who  knew  a  little  of  everything. 

"And  do  you  know,  Sister  Leonide,"  proceeded 
Sister  Justine,  "that  Laetitia's  cousin,  Ursula 
Magre,  is  quite  well  again?" 

"Yes,  Mother;  hi  fact,  I  met  her  yesterday,  in 
Place  Bellecour,  and  she  didn't  know  me." 

"She  didn't  see  you?" 

"Ah  yes,  she  did.  It's  not  nice  in  an  old  pupil. 
But  now  she  is  not  at  her  linen-workshop " 

"She  doesn't  work  there  now?" 

"No." 


THE  NUN  15 

"Where  is  she  then?" 

"Well,  she  is  not  with  the  Salvation  Army 
either." 

Sister  Le*omde  coloured.  She  often  brought 
back  with  her,  from  her  tasks  in  the  town,  tidings 
that  she  did  not  impart  to  her  companions,  unless 
—as  now — she  was  taken  unawares,  with  an 
ensuing  regret  for  having  talked  too  much.  No 
one  present  pressed  the  point.  One  or  two  faces 
wore  a  look  of  pity.  But  Edwige's  face  was  calm. 
She  lifted  to  the  skies,  where  the  night  was  now 
come,  her  wondering  gaze;  her  lips  moved,  and 
she  seemed  to  be  praying,  with  the  stars  for  a 
rosary. 

Sister  Pascale,  her  mobile  face  full  of  a  tragic 
indignation,  noticed  nothing  except  the  refusal 
of  recognition  and  greeting  to  little  Sister  Leonide, 
her  old  friend,  and  exclaimed :  ' '  What  a  shame ! ' ' 

The  Superior  turned  her  eyes  on  the  weaver's 
daughter. 

"Yes,"  cried  Pascale,  "a  shame.  Not  to  know 
the  good  Sister  who  taught  one  to  read,  whom 
one  has  seen  every  day  for  four  or  five  years — it 
is  a  kind  of  ingratitude  I  can  hardly  understand." 

"But  you  will  see  it  very  often,  little  girl." 

"Then  I  shall  never  get  used  to  it.  It  has  hurt 
me  before.  Why  when  I  cross  the  place  in  the 
morning,  going  to  church,  I  pass  people  I  have 
never  seen  till  then,  and  they  look  at  me  as  though 
they  hated  me  madly." 

"That's  true  enough." 

"Men  of  the  town — my  town;  working  people, 
like  my  people.  And  I  think,  'Do  you  know 


16  THE  NUN 

what  I  am  doing  for  you,  wretches?  I  am  making 
mothers,  making  wives,  making  happiness  for  you, 
and  yet  you  don't  love  me!" 

The  stout  Superior  laughed  as  she  saw,  in  the 
twilight,  the  impassioned  face  of  Pascale. 

"  There  are  so  many  reasons  for  ingratitude — 
good  ones  and  bad  ones." 

"  Oh !  good  reasons  for  ingratitude ! ' ' 

"Why,  yes." 

"It  is  not  for  ourselves  that  we  are  despised," 
said  the  touching  voice  of  Sister  Edwige,  "and 
that  is  the  sad  thing." 

As  she  never  spoke  save  piously  and  wisely,  the 
four  listened.  The  Sister  stooped  to  put  aside  a 
ball  left  on  the  cement  of  the  playground  floor, 
and  raising  again  her  supple  figure,  continued  with 
the  tone  of  conviction  that  came  of  her  great 
sincerity: 

"To  carry  our  Christ  through  the  world;  not 
to  let  Him  die  within  us;  to  lift  Him  up  as  hi  a 
monstrance — not  often;  but  to  let  Him  shine 
through,  always,  habitually — our  one  Love." 

She  had  told  the  story  of  her  own  life.  She 
added  hi  a  lower  tone: 

"The  rest  is  not  our  business.  The  rest  does 
not  exist." 

For  a  little  while  there  was  no  sound  in  the 
playground  except  the  hum  of  the  city,  and  the 
whisper  of  the  felt  shoes  of  the  nuns  stirring  the 
dust  of  the  pavement. 

"And  you,  Sister  Danielle,  what  is  your  ambi- 
tion? Sister  Edwige  has  told  hers." 

The  nun  thus  questioned  hesitated,  because  of 


THE  NUN  17 

the  embarrassment  she  felt  whenever  she  had 
to  appear,  to  speak,  to  arrest  the  attention  of 
others ;  then  she  obeyed : 

"I  should  wish  to  buy  back  souls,  in  secret. 
It  does  one  so  much  good,  when  one  is  suffering, 
to  think  that  one  is  bearing  some  of  the  burdens 
of  the  over-burdened." 

"Well,  you'll  certainly  have  your  wish,"  said 
the  loud  and  laughing  voice  of  the  Alsatian;  "we 
have  had,  and  we  shall  have,  trials  enough.  And 
you,  Sister  Le"onide?" 

"Oh,  as  for  me,  whatever  you  like,  so  long  as 
I  don't  have  to  give  orders." 

"Why  not?" 

"Because  I  shall  never  be  able  to  do  anything 
but  just  what  I  have  to  do  now." 

"And  you,  Sister  Pascale?  Now,  let  us  see 
whether  she  really  deserves  that  we  should  care 
for  her  as  we  do." 

"I  am  certainly  not  holy,"  said  the  young  and 
unsteady  voice;  "and  I  want  you  all — I  always 
want  you,  that  you  may  help  me  to  become 
better.  That  is  my  ambition."  Sister  Pascale 
looked  at  them  all,  one  by  one,  with  the  warmth 
of  her  eyes,  which  was  like  the  first  warmth  of 
morning. 

"But  I  want  something  besides,"  she  added. 
"I  want  our  little  girls.  You  know  I  don't  love 
them  all  alike — that's  the  worst  of  it.  But 
whenever  I  see  one — even  one  of  those  I  care  less 
about — my  heart  melts." 

"That  is  true,"  said  Sister  Edwige;  "they  are 
life  growing  up,  they  are  divine  grace  going  by." 


18  THE  NUN 

Their  words  remained  within  the  narrow  group 
they  made  as  they  walked. 

Meanwhile,  the  huge  town  within  which  they 
were  lost  had  ceased  to  labour.  Had  they  been 
able  to  hear  and  see  the  life  of  but  a  single  street, 
close  by  their  school,  what  a  difference  would  they 
have  perceived  between  themselves  and  "the 
world"!  The  men  in  the  work-shop  of  Japomy 
the  tanner  were  insulting  a  foreman,  who  had 
given,  somewhat  too  abruptly,  a  perfectly  just 
order;  women,  gathered  on  doorsteps,  were  slan- 
dering the  owner  and  the  owner's  wife,  according 
to  custom.  The  owner's  wife,  on  her  part,  was  re- 
jecting a  husband  for  her  daughter,  for  the  sole 
reason — sufficient  to  her  mind — that  he  was  of  less 
fortune  than  the  girl;  vagrant  and  ragged  appli- 
cants were  turned  rudely  away  from  the  doors  of 
employment;  wine-shop  politicians  -were  fostering 
their  own  popularity  by  preaching  hatred  of  "  peo- 
ple who  think  they  are  our  betters";  some  jour- 
neymen butchers,  rich  with  their  week's  wages, 
were  taking  an  airing  hi  an  open  carriage;  an  in- 
digent priest,  neglected  or  forgotten  in  the  hard 
work  of  a  poor  parish,  was  speaking  of  his  Arch- 
bishop with  scanty  respect.  Human  pride  in 
many  shapes  everywhere  held  sway,  fratricidal 
pride,  first  sin  of  man,  much  older  than  lust, 
much  older  than  a  lie,  much  older  than  the  love 
of  gold. 

The  last  pale  light  of  the  sky  above  the  court- 
yard and  its  two  plane-trees  was  dead.  Lights 
shone  in  kitchens  of  multitudes  of  houses  on  many 
levels  of  the  steep  city;  fog  lay  over  the  river;  the 


THE  NUN  19 

panting  of  the  last  machine  in  the  factories  had 
ceased  with  the  last  puff  of  white  steam.  Great 
draughts  of  air  from  the  plateau  of  the  Dombes 
disturbed  the  stifling  atmosphere,  and  spread  cool- 
ness hither  and  thither.  Two  of  the  Sisters,  Edwige 
and  Pascale,  folded  their  arms  and  hid  their  hands 
in  their  blue  sleeves.  It  was  the  season  and  the 
hour  of  the  flowering  of  the  stars ;  they  clustered 
so  closely  that  the  sand  of  the  playground  floor 
caught  minute  reflections  from  their  brightness, 
and  the  roofs  shone  faintly.  A  bell  rang  within  the 
house  and  startled  Sister  Leonide. 

"Who  can  be  ringing?"  she  asked. 

"You  can  see  for  yourself,  my  child,"  said  Sister 
Justine,  tranquilly;  "go  and  open  the  door." 

The  noise  of  bolts  withdrawn  was  vaguely  audi- 
ble; then  Leonide  returned,  a  little  disturbed  by 
the  infraction  of  the  rule  she  had  been  obliged  to 
commit. 

"Mother,  it  is  Ursula  Magre,  the  old  school- 
girl- 

"Yes,  I  know — why,  we  were  just  talking 
about  her.  What  did  she  want?  " 

"She  wanted  to  see  you." 

"You  told  her  I  would  see  her  to-morrow?" 

"No,  Mother.  I  told  her  to  come  in.  There  is 
a  hurry  about  something.  She  looked — she 
looked — anyhow . ' ' 

"Looked  what?" 

"Funny — no — a  good  deal  put  out,  with  her 
frizzy  head  of  hair.  She  is  in  the  parlour,  Mother." 

The  old  Superior  tapped  Sister  Leonide  twice 
upon  the  cheek. 


20  THE  NUN 

"  Think  of  not  being  able  to  keep  the  door,  at 
your  age!" 

There  was  no  other  reproof.  She  left  the  group 
of  nuns  who  continued  their  tranquil  walk,  and 
the  night  heard  nothing  more  than  four  young 
voices,  their  quiet  speech  and  their  gentle  laughter. 

Sister  Justine  threaded  the  corridor,  crossed  the 
house  in  darkness,  and  near  the  front  door  turned 
to  the  left  into  a  small  room  containing  only  chairs, 
where  she  was  accustomed  to  receive  "relations." 
On  the  mantelpiece  a  small  petroleum  lamp — a 
glass  globe  sheltering  a  little  circlet  of  metal — 
gave  light  to  the  room.  And  in  the  unsteady  light 
which  the  four  bare  walls  reflected,  a  tall  fair- 
haired  girl,  upright,  her  eyelids  partly  lowered, 
splendid  hair  piled  on  the  top  of  her  head,  greeted 
the  nun  familiarly. 

"How  do  you  do,  Mother?" 

But  she  did  not  hold  out  her  hand,  nor  did  she 
seek  a  kiss  from  the  old  head  of  the  school  of  her 
younger  days. 

"I  have  something  pressing  to  tell  you,"  con- 
tinued Ursula,  "and  I  feel  it — will  you  promise 
to  keep  it  secret?" 

"I  carry  more  than  my  own  weight  of  secrets 
about  with  me,  my  girl — about  half  the  secrets  of 
the  district.  You  can  go  on.  Or  shall  I  help  you? 
Come  now,  you  have  not  been  to  see  me  for  five 
years.  You  have  had  a  reason.  You  have  made 
a  slip,  is  that  it?" 

The  tall  girl,  whose  cheeks  and  short  upturned 
nose  and  uncovered  neck  looked  rosy  and  trans- 
parent hi  the  lamp  light,  drew  herself  up  and  put 


THE  NUN  21 

her  two  hands  before  her,  palms  outwards,  as 
though  to  keep  that  matter  away;  then  she  said: 

"It's  not  about  me,  it's  about  your  school. 
I've  got  to  tell  you  that  the  school  is  closed." 

Sister  Justine  caught  her  by  the  arm,  drew  her 
to  the  wall,  compelled  her  to  sit  opposite  the  little 
lamp,  took  a  chair  by  her. 

"What  do  you  mean?  Closed?  the  school?" 
She  was  whiter  than  her  frontlet,  and  her  wrinkles 
were  suddenly  ploughed  deep. 

"I  know  it,  there's  an  order  for  you  to  leave 
your  school." 

"When?" 

"You'll  go,  you'll  have  to  go,  in  five  or  six 
days." 

"A  month  before  the  holidays?" 

"So  I  suppose." 

"Oh,  my  God!  And  my  children,  what  is  to 
become  of  them?" 

"That's  just  it.  I  thought  I  would  let  you 
know."  The  nun  bowed  herself,  bent  in  two. 
Ursula  had  nothing  at  her  side  but  a  blue  and 
black  bundle  from  which  escaped  the  cry,  "Oh, 
my  God,  my  God,  how  can  I  bear  this?" 

Ursula  Magre,  who  was  moved  by  sobs  so  near 
her,  had  her  own  lip  caught  by  a  slight  spasm  of 
pain.  She  breathed  quickly  under  her  mauve  cot- 
ton bodice ;  she  glanced  awkwardly,  now  at  the  old 
nun  struck  down  by  her  news  as  by  a  bullet,  now 
at  the  light  of  the  lamp  beginning  to  smoke  in  its 
glass  globe.  Sister  Justine  sat  up,  wiped  her  eyes  on 
her  veil,  then  taking  Ursula's  two  hands,  she  said : 

"Look  here,  my  child,  we  must  be  practical. 


22  THE  NUN 

We  must  not  run  away  with  our  trouble.  My 
whole  life  is  at  stake.  But  you  can't  be  sure;  it 
is  just  a  rumour;  we  are  not  obliged  to  get  an 
authorisation,  as  the  new  schools  are.  Our 
Mother-House  has  been  authorised " 

The  girl  made  a  movement  which  meant 
"What  do  I  know  about  that?" 

"The  Government  said  so.  We  had  not  to  ask 
permission.  The  Abbe  Le  Suet,  our  Superior, 
positively  read  it  out." 

"I  tell  you,  all  the  same,  that  you  are  to  be 
closed." 

"And  we  have  been  here  forty  years.  Do  you 
understand?  Forty ! ' ' 

"All  the  more  reason,  then." 

"And  how  do  you  know  this?" 

Sister  Justine  let  go  Ursula's  hands.  The  girl 
seemed  so  certain  of  what  she  said !  The  two  wom- 
en looked  point-blank  at  one  another,  the  elder 
seeking  to  find  out  whether  she  were  deceived, 
the  younger  angry  at  the  distrust  which  she  read 
in  the  Superior's  eyes,  and  none  the  less  angry 
because  she  felt  a  certain  degree  of  shame,  albeit 
in  secret,  before  this  old  school-mistress  who  knew 
so  much  of  her  own  towns-people  that  she  could 
read  them.  Ursula  Magre  was  too  proud  to  con- 
fess her  embarrassment.  She  overcame  it,  and 
with  the  audacity  she  had  always  shown  of  old  in 
confessing  her  own  faults,  without  condescending 
to  ask  for  their  forgiveness,  she  said : 

"It  is  quite  impossible  for  us  to  live  as  you  do. 
I  am  keeping  house,  you  know — He  is  a  police 
agent,  and  it's  he  who  sent  me " 


THE  NUN  23 

Sister  Justine  betrayed  no  surprise.  She  said 
in  a  softened  tone : 

"Why  did  he  not  come  instead  of  you?  It  is 
not  a  pleasant  errand." 

"Well,  it  bothers  him.  He  doesn't  like  busi- 
ness. You  know  men  are  afraid,  much  more 
afraid  than  we  are.  And  then " 

"And  then?" 

"My  coming  to  you  from  him  was  to  do  you  a 
good  turn." 

"How?    Can  he  prevent  this  misfortune?" 

"He  certainly  can't." 

"Well  then?" 

Ursula  paused  a  while. 

"Listen  to  me,  Mother,"  she  said  slowly.  "I 
shouldn't  have  come  at  all,  if  it  had  been  only  to 
make  you  unhappy.  One  has  no  spite  against 
you,  one  hadn't  anything  unpleasant  in  one's 
school  days — and  it  doesn't  follow,  even  if  one 
isn't  pious  now-a-days " 

"You  never  were." 

"Even  if  one  has  forgotten  a  lot  of  things,  one's 
sorry  enough  to  see  you  put  about.  That's  why. 
Do  you  mean  to  hold  out?" 

Sister  Justine  raised  her  shoulders. 

"If  I  only  could!    If  it  were  of  any  use!" 

"You  mustn't." 

"Why?" 

"He  told  me  to  tell  you  to  give  in.  It's  the  law. 
'If  they  make  us  come — a  lot  of  us,'  he  said,  'if 
they  make  a  rumpus,'  he  said,  'I  won't  answer  for 
anything.  The  Mother-House  at  Clermont-Fer- 
rand may  be  shut  up  as  well,'  he  said.  'But  if 


24  THE  NUN 

they  go  quietly  of  their  own  accord,  for  one  thing 
they'll  save  their  Mother-House,  and  for  another 
thing,  Government  may  allow  the  nuns,  after  they 
have  been  secularised,  to  go  on  teaching.  Gov- 
ernment will  take  notice  of  their  good  conduct.' 
That's  what  he  said,  Mother." 

She  waited  for  a  reply.  There  was  none. 
Sister  Justine  had  at  last  fully  understood  that 
the  news  was  true.  She  was  staring  at  the  wall. 
Her  knees  trembled  beneath  her  heavy  gown ;  she 
saw  in  thought  her  nuns  going  down  the  three 
stone  steps  into  the  place,  the  children  around 
them  in  tears,  the  vacant  class-rooms,  and  the 
dusty  cells.  She  heard  not,  but  Ursula  was 
saying: 

"Well,  he  says  the  best  thing  you  could  do 
would  be  to  go  out  at  once — to-morrow,  or  the 
day  after,  without  giving  notice  at  all;  just 
quietly.  The  Mother-House " 

Sister  Justine  stood  up.  Her  face  kept  the  deep 
lines  of  pain  that  the  news  had  marked  there.  But 
now  something  else  was  mixed  with  her  grief:  the 
anguish  of  a  decision  involving  the  destruction  of 
her  school;  the  dread  of  that  burden  of  office 
which  would  make  her  the  executioner;  the  ap- 
prehension of  that  moment,  drawing  near,-  when 
she  must  tell  the  dreadful  secret  to  her  fond  com- 
panions now  awaiting  her,  ignorant  of  all. 

"What  answer  shall  I  take?"  asked  Ursula 
Magre,  hesitating.  "What  are  you  going  to 
do?" 

The  nun  moved  her  head.  "Be  quiet,"  she 
said  with  an  effort.  "Let  me  go  and  tell  them." 


THE  NUN  25 

She  crossed  the  little  parlour  and  took  the 
lamp.  She  was  sobbing,  in  spite  of  herself,  under 
the  veil  she  had  pulled  down.  Ursula  followed 
her,  wishing  that  she  might  give  her  a  kiss  for  the 
sake  of  old  times,  but  she  dared  not.  She  went 
down  the  steps  while  the  nun,  holding  up  the 
lamp  for  her,  turned  away  her  poor  aged  face 
bathed  hi  tears. 

The  door  was  closed.  The  hand  that  held  the 
lamp  sank  down,  and  Sister  Justine,  alone,  in  the 
shadows  of  the  corridor,  in  the  wind  that  came 
warm  down  the  staircase,  wept.  Her  head  was 
bowed,  and  her  tears  fell  upon  the  sandy  stone 
worn  by  the  feet  of  children.  She,  so  strong,  so 
well  versed  in  the  art  of  self-control,  was  unable  to 
possess  herself  again.  She  failed,  she  leant  against 
the  wall.  Oh!  those  Sisters,  those  dear  and  inno- 
cent fellow-labourers  of  hers,  a  few  yards  away  in 
their  peace,  in  their  joy,  and  she  was  now  to  de- 
stroy their  lives.  The  sound  of  a  sweet  and  fresh 
treble  voice — she  knew  it  was  the  voice  of  Edwige 
—reached  her  from  without;  she  heard  it  in  her 
agony.  Revived  by  the  life  that  was  near,  or  by  a 
grace  sudden  and  direct,  she  put  the  lamp  in  its 
place,  blew  out  the  flame,  and  groped  her  way  to 
the  door  that  opened  on  the  playground. 

In  the  soft  and  airy  night  the  Sisters  were  still 
walking.  They  took  the  pleasure  of  rest  from  toil 
and  the  pleasure  of  obedience,  in  their  recreation. 
Nothing  had  disturbed  them ;  no  words,  no  fading 
of  the  beauty  of  the  hour,  no  slightest  apprehen- 
sion as  to  the  absence  of  Sister  Justine,  for  they 
knew  poer  visitors  had  much  to  say.  The  sounds 


26  THE  NUN 

of  the  city  were  quiet.  In  the  clearer  air  of  night 
more  distant  odours,  such  as  the  scent  of  country 
hay,  were  perceptible.  Sister  Justine  appeared, 
her  arms  extended. 

They  all  moved  towards  her:  "Our  Mother, 
back  again!  You  have  been  long  away!" 

But  as  they  came  nearer,  notwithstanding  the 
uncertainty  of  the  light  of  night,  they  thought, 
they  saw,  that  Sister  Justine  had  the  face  of  one 
in  grief,  and  that  her  open  arms  were  not  open 
to  enfold  them,  but  that  they  signified  the  Cross. 

"Oh!  my  girls,  my  daughters,  my  little  chil- 
dren! our  hour  of  suffering  has  come!" 

She  joined  her  hands,  and  looking  in  the  face  of 
Sister  Pascale,  who  was  nearest,  she  said: 

"We  shall  be  sent  away  within  a  week." 

Her  four  companions  came  about  her,  the 
smile  of  welcome  hardly  yet  gone  from  their  lips. 
A  moment  was  needed  for  the  sinking  of  such 
news  into  those  hearts.  But  it  reached  at  last  and 
explored  the  inmost  capacity  of  suffering.  Loving 
much,  these  women  had  the  more  power  to  suffer. 
There  were  no  cries,  but  shudders,  stifled  words, 
bowed  heads,  hands  that  sought  each  other,  eye- 
lids that  closed  so  that  they  might  shut  in,  if  it 
were  possible,  the  first  of  many  tears. 

Then  one  voice  of  distress  began : 

"0  God,  have  pity  on  our  little  girls!" 

It  was  the  voice  of  Danielle. 

Sister  Edwige  said:  "Oh,  the  dear,  beloved 
house!" 

Sister  Pascale  said:  "\\Tiat  will  become  of  me 
without  you  all?" 


THE  NUN  27 

Sister  Leonide  pulled  her  nickel  watch  from 
her  girdle,  and  walked  quickly  away.  As  she 
moved  down  the  playground,  her  companions, 
raising  their  faces,  began  to  ask  questions : 

"0  Mother,  is  it  possible?  They  told  us  we 
were  in  order.  Is  there  no  appeal?  Who  told 
you?  Oh,  do  tell  us  whether  there  is  any  hope 
at  all!  Can  we  do  anything?  What  ought  we 
to  do?" 

Sister  Justine,  unmoved  outwardly  amid  their 
dismay,  turned  her  eyes  from  the  sight  of  their 
tears  and  of  their  young  lips  trembling  like  those 
of  aged  women : 

"My  little  children,  we  must  pray  hard.  It  is 
the  one  thing,  the  divine  thing.  As  to  human 
hope — I  shall  write  to-morrow— 

A  bell  interrupted  her  with  the  first  of  six  slow 
strokes.  It  was  the  bell  of  their  rule,  and  Sister 
Justine  stopped  in  her  phrase.  The  Sisters  walked 
in  single  line  into  the  house,  the  youngest,  Pascale, 
at  their  head.  The  "great  silence"  had  set  in, 
not  to  be  broken  until  eight  o'clock  of  the  morning 
of  another  day. 

Ursula  Magre  was  already  far  away.  She 
lived,  with  her  protector,  near  the  point  of  the 
peninsula  of  Perrache,  between  the  Saone  and 
the  Rhone.  She  was  going  to  give  him  an  account 
of  her  errand.  She  bit  her  red  lips;  she  was  not 
grieved,  but  annoyed,  at  having  had  to  take  a 
part  in  this  eviction  business,  and  at  having  to 
witness  at  such  close  quarters  the  grief  of  her  old 


28  THE  NUN 

school-mistress.  Nothing  should  make  her  spend 
such  another  quarter-of-an-hour  as  that  at  St. 
Hildegarde's.  Fargeat  might  go  himself  next 
time.  A  man  shouldn't  make  a  woman  do  his 
work.  She  was  rehearsing  what  she  would  say  to 
him,  word  and  gesture  both.  There  was  anger  in 
her  swinging  walk,  and  in  the  carriage  of  the  rosy 
face  and  golden  head  which,  in  the  shop  lights, 
called  up  the  gay,  or  insolent,  or  sinister,  or 
merely  stupid  eyes  of  admiring  men.  Some  knew 
her,  many  called  to  her,  " Hallo,  pretty  girl!" 
She  walked  in  the  middle  of  the  street,  pouting, 
out  of  humour,  and  made  no  answer.  A  young 
fellow  with  a  sheaf  of  seringa,  more  than  half 
faded,  on  his  arm,  the  last  unsold  of  his  wares, 
cried  to  her,  "Flowers,  buy  my  flowers!  A  sou 
for  the  lot!"  Weary,  unsteady  as  a  drunkard,  the 
young  man  lurched  towards  her;  coming  close, 
and  aware  of  the  scent  of  shop-perfumery  that 
came  from  her,  his  Lyons  street-wit  impelled  him 
to  call,  "You  don't  want  flowers — you're  sweet 
enough  as  you  are!"  She  laughed  cordially,  she 
felt  herself  to  be  looking  well.  Almost  all  her  own 
annoyance  fell  from  her,  with  such  little  trace  of 
the  grief  of  others  as  she  had  carried  with  her  from 
the  convent.  She  went  on  by  the  bank  of  the 
Rhone,  under  a  million  stars  that  scattered  their 
lights  in  the  troubled  waters.  She  went  "home" 
to  her  second-floor  flat.  When  she  entered  the 
kitchen  a  man  in  his  shirt  sleeves,  leaning  on  the 
window-sill,  struck  a  match.  He  was  a  man  of 
thirty,  with  a  rat  face,  glowing  eyes,  stiff  mous- 
tache and  hair.  He  held  up  the  candle  he  had 


THE  NUN  29 

lighted  and  looked  at  Ursula.  His  narrow  face 
took  a  little  colour,  and  his  intelligent,  untrust- 
worthy eyes,  eyes  that  changed  expression  much 
oftener  than  those  of  Ursula,  sparkled  with  curi- 
osity and  enjoyment. 

"Well?" 

"I  saw  her." 

"Did  she  turn  you  out?" 

"That  she  didn't." 

"I  thought  she  would." 

"I'm  an  old  girl,  remember." 

"So  you  are;  she  let  you  in?" 

"Yes,  she  did." 

"When  she  heard  they  were  going  to  shut  up 
her  old  shop,  she  began  to  abuse  the  Government, 
I  suppose?" 

"No,  she  didn't." 

"Sheened,  then?" 

"Yes,  poor  old  Sister.  I  didn't  like  it.  I 
thought  one  time  she  was  going  to  faint " 

"You  mentioned  the  Mother-House?" 

"Yes,  as  you  told  me." 

"That's  a  good  girl.  And  she  just  knocked 
under?  It's  a  good  joke,  the  way  that  fetches 
them — 'Make  the  Mother-House  safe.'  You've 
done  the  job.  So  she  promised  to  clear  out  with- 
out making  a  fuss,  so  as  to  save " 

"She  didn't  promise  anything  at  all." 

"Ah?" 

"And  you  gave  me  your  dirty  work  to  do — 
that's  what  you  did.  I  won't  do  any  more. 
You  can  take  it  yourself." 

He  did  not  hear  her.    He  was  thinking. 


30  THE  NUN 

"Come,"  he  said  laughing,  "don't  be  cross. 
We've  done  the  trick.  That's  all  that's  wanted. 
She  didn't  turn  you  out,  and  she  won't  make  a 
fuss.  The  governor  will  be  pleased.  Give  us 
a  kiss." 


II. 


A  VOCATION. 

THE  night  had  grown  more  moist,  a  night  of 
the  ripening  of  fruits,  and  its  wings  were  over  the 
cultivated  lands.  The  blood  of  man  and  of 
the  plant  was  renewed  in  the  darkness.  And  the 
greater  number  of  all  creatures  slept.  In  the 
house  of  the  Sisters  of  St.  Hildegarde  the  night 
lamp  was  not  put  out  later  than  the  customary 
hour.  With  those  saintly  souls,  self-abandon- 
ment within  the  arms  of  Providence  overcame 
grief.  One  after  another  the  Sisters  slept.  One 
alone  did  not  sleep,  in  an  anguish  that  increased 
in  the  solitude  of  night — Pascale.  Her  childhood 
returned  upon  her,  and  the  better  she  remem- 
bered her  own  brief  yesterday,  the  more  instant 
was  her  terror. 

Her  childhood  returned  upon  her,  and  the 
close  thereof — the  painful  close.  Five  years  Pas- 
cale lived  in  a  corner  of  the  Croix  Rousse,  still 
called  by  old  people  in  the  district  the  "Pierres 
Plantees,"  nearly  at  the  top  of  the  Grande  Cote, 
a  street  peopled  by  weavers,  by  second-hand 
dealers,  butchers,  grocers,  bakers,  whose  little 
shops  were  narrow  and  deep ;  a  street  paved 
with  cobbles  after  the  ancient  manner,  too  steep 
for  any  kind  of  carriage,  and  having  notches  cut 

31 


32  THE  NUN 

in  the  asphalt  of  its  sidewalks  so  that  foot-pas- 
sengers should  not  have  too  many  falls.  She  was 
the  child  of  one  of  the  working  quarters,  the  old 
habitation  of  silk-weavers  that  is  divided  by  the 
Saone  from  the  church  quarter — Four vi  ere,  with 
its  sanctuary  standing  over  the  mists  of  two  great 
rivers. 

Pascale  had  carried  away,  in  the  depths  of  her 
golden  eyes,  the  image  of  her  former  world.  She 
beheld  again,  with  a  precision  of  remembrance 
that  moved  her,  as  the  thing  itself  had  moved 
her,  that  morning  of  December  the  8th,  1897, 
when  she  had  resolved  to  utter,  for  the  first  time, 
the  secret  that  weighed  upon  her  heart.  A  tardy 
dawn  was  breaking.  Neither  on  that  night  had 
Pascale  slept.  She  had  watched  for  the  first  pal- 
ing of  the  high  window-pane — the  one  which, 
seen  from  Pascale 's  bed  below,  had  only  the  sky 
beyond;  and  she  had  thought:  "A  fog  again! 
All  day  long  to  see  the  sun  only  through  a  heap 
of  mist!  And  I  did  pray  for  a  fine  day."  And 
then  the  electric  looms  had  begun  their  beat, 
beat,  for  the  day,  up  above  the  Mouvands'  flat, 
on  the  second  floor,  for  the  three  floors  were  in- 
habited by  weavers,  and  for  centuries  floors,  walls, 
furniture,  throughout  the  building,  had  shaken 
all  day  long  as  though  under  the  stress  of  a  great 
and  incessant  storm.  Ah,  silk  enough  had  been 
carried  down  that  stair!  Pieces  enough  of  the 
beautiful  finished  fabric  had  left  those  doors! 
The  shuttles  had  travelled  many  times  round 
the  world. 

The  house,  now  newly  fitted  with  machines, 


THE  NUN  33 

was  beginning  a  day's  work,  when  a  voice  from 
the  distant  workshop  called : 

"Pascale,  do  you  hear  them?  Since  they  had 
to  pay  seventy  francs  to  the  Jonage  Works  for 
electric  power,  they  make  noise  enough,  those 
Rambauxi" 

"That's  true." 

"Did  you  sleep  well?" 

"Not  so  well  as  usual." 

"I  did,  splendidly.  I'm  very  fit  to  begin  my 
day.  Make  haste  and  dress — I'm  ready." 

And  Pascale,  rising  in  haste,  felt  that  she  was 
shaken  more  profoundly  than  the  building. 

"I  have  to  tell  ny  father,  who  loves  me  so, 
that  I  am  to  be  a  nun,  that  I  am  to  leave  him — 
I  must  tell  him,  now,  at  once . " 

She  slipped  on  her  woollen  petticoat  and  stood 
at  the  mirror-faced  wardrobe,  the  only  luxury  of 
her  bedroom  and  only  heritage  from  her  mother, 
and  she  unwound  her  hair.  It  was  her  chief 
beauty,  not  because  of  its  length,  for  it  hardly 
reached  her  waist,  but  for  strength,  vitality, 
elastic  abundance,  and  the  flame  of  colour  that 
played  here  and  there  through  its  fairness;  it 
looked  a  very  crown  of  youth,  and  its  brightness 
lighted  the  pale  face  of  the  city  work-girl.  The 
slightest  movement  of  her  head  made  the  lights 
flow  over  those  spreading  tresses,  which  resem- 
bled handfuls  of  Chinese  or  Japanese  silk  prepared 
for  the  embroidering  of  golden  birds  flying,  or 
golden  fish  swimming,  on  the  ground  of  some  blue 
screen.  Often  and  often  had  she  looked  with  de- 
light on  her  own  hair,  this  tender  Pascale;  it 


34  THE  NUN 

smiled  at  her.  She  had  nursed,  as  she  looked, 
those  thoughts  of  vanity  that  are,  in  their  source, 
neither  more  nor  less  than  the  desires  of  love. 
But  for  some  months  past  she  had  denied  herself 
such  dreams,  and  on  this  morning  she  had  no  diffi- 
culty in  keeping  them  away.  By  the  light  of  her 
little  night-lamp  she  saw  her  mirrored  eyes,  dull 
and  sleepless.  "And  what  will  they  look  like 
when  I  have  said  all  I  have  to  say — when  I  have 
cried,  as  I  shall  cry?"  she  wondered.  But  it  mat- 
tered little.  She  made  haste  to  fasten  up  her  hair 
and  to  dress  herself. 

Whence  had  this  girl  a  convent  vocation?  In 
the  first  place,  from  a  rare  self-knowledge.  Her 
mother,  dead  three  years  before,  a  working  woman 
with  eyes  full  of  prayer  and  of  dreams,  a  face  wide 
at  the  brow  and  narrow  at  the  chin,  and  a  figure 
bent,  from  her  earliest  years,  over  the  loom,  that 
patient  "hand"  who  was  reluctant  to  undertake 
intricate  patterns  because  of  the  mental  effort 
they  demanded — her  mother  had  bequeathed  her 
an  anxious  temperament,  a  heart  sensitive  to  ex- 
cess, a  passionate  love  of  children  and  much  ti- 
midity in  regard  to  men.  Pascale,  less  sheltered 
than  her  mother  by  daily  indoor  labour,  a  pupil 
of  the  Sisters  until  the  age  of  thirteen,  and  after- 
wards busy  about  the  house,  the  kitchen,  the 
marketing,  while  her  parents  were  at  their  weav- 
ing, had  noted  how  quickly  her  own  nature  was 
moved  by  affectionate  words,  by  the  happy  or 
painful  confidences  of  her  friends,  by  the  senti- 
mental lessons  of  the  few  romances  she  had  read, 
by  attentions,  looks,  signs  of  harmless  admira- 


THE  NUN  35 

tion,  of  evil  desires,  by  the  tumult  of  feeling,  like 
the  concourse  in  the  street  at  eleven  o'clock,  agi- 
tations of  human  emotion  that  touched  her 
nearly,  embarrassed  her,  and  flattered  her. 

She  felt  the  shock  and  the  trouble  when  she 
went  out  to  fetch  the  milk  or  the  vegetables,  when 
she  met,  on  the  stairs,  the  insolent  young  men  of 
the  Rambaux  family,  dwellers  on  the  third  floor, 
who,  in  her  honour  only,  stood  aside  and  raised 
their  caps;  and  when  the  agents  of  M.  Talier- 
Decapy  came  to  inspect  the  works,  to  place  orders, 
or  to  summon  Mouvand  to  the  owner's  room. 
She  felt  the  attraction,  she  felt  the  fear.  She 
dreaded  to  appear,  to  be  praised,  to  mix  with  the 
crowd,  to  feel  herself  coveted,  to  breathe  that 
breath  of  passion  from  the  street  which  all  town- 
dwellers  must  meet,  but  which  beats  so  hotly  on 
the  faces  of  the  young  and  of  the  lovely.  Her 
thrills,  her  curiosity,  her  uneasiness  revealed  its 
own  frailty  to  her  watchful  heart.  She  was 
alarmed,  for  this  was  a  religious  girl,  who  prized 
her  own  chastity  as  a  treasure.  One  day  she 
pronounced  in  her  own  secret  counsels  her  own 
sentence:  "I  believe  I  should  be  more  easily 
ruined  than  other  girls.  I  ought  to  take  refuge." 
And  this  thought  came  and  came  again. 

Pascale  observed  herself  also  on  the  point  of 
obedience.  She  knew  herself  uncertain,  doubtful, 
reluctant,  slow  to  act,  harassed  by  regrets  when 
she  had  acted  even  in  trivial  things;  but  full  of 
peace  under  the  yoke  of  a  reasonable  obedience. 
Her  father's  word,  her  mother's,  or  that  of  another 
in  whom  she  trusted — "This  is  the  right  thing, 


36  THE  NUN 

this  you  should  do" — cleared  the  doubt  and  quiet- 
ed the  questioning.  Then  and  not  till  then  did 
she  set  about  the  work  before  her.  It  might  al- 
ways be  her  lot  to  follow  directions  that  she  could 
trust  and  love.  She  was  one  of  a  great  multitude 
of  human  souls  that  have  neither  greatness  nor 
strength  except  through  their  affections.  Doubt- 
less she  might  have  married,  and  often  by  her  as 
by  other  girls  that  future  had  been  faced.  It  was 
the  common  lot — a  husband,  a  house,  children. 
But  she  had  not  been  educated  in  the  illusion  that 
marriage  and  happiness  are  one.  She  had  seen 
the  fate  of  women  otherwise.  Daughter  of  a 
mother  early  dead,  sister  of  a  little  Blandine  de- 
stroyed by  meningitis  at  ten  years  old,  herself 
delicate  and  subject  to  long-lasting  winter  coughs, 
she  could  not  think  of  marriage  without  remember- 
ing the  exhaustion  of  young  women  under  frequent 
child-birth,  and  under  the  concurrent  necessity 
of  bread-winning  for  themselves  and  others ;  with- 
out remembering  the  still  less  fortunate  among  her 
neighbours — forsaken,  beaten,  bound  for  life  to 
idlers  and  to  ruffians. 

And  even  had  she  been  sought  in  marriage  by 
a  good  man,  an  industrious  weaver  and  son  of 
weavers — as  there  were  not  a  few  in  the  Ooix 
Rousse — or  by  a  clerk  or  little  tradesman,  would 
the  protection  of  her  youth  be  effectual?  "If  I 
don't  grow  bad,"  she  thought,  "I  shall  not  be 
very  good.  In  that  commonplace  life,  subject  to 
influences  as  I  am,  I  may  still  have  vague  wishes 
for  something  more  perfect,  but  I  shall  not  rise. 
I  should  be  much  safer  in  a  convent.  I  should 


THE  NUN  37 

have  the  safeguard  of  the  nunnery  walls,  the  safe- 
guard of  examples,  of  the  rule,  of  regular  obligatory 
prayer.  In  the  world  I  might  be  a  bad  woman 
or  a  very  ordinary  one;  in  the  convent  I  might 
become  a  saintly  soul.  Is  not  that  the  one  thing 
for  me?" 

She  had  asked  this  question  of  a  friend  whose 
counsel  she  valued.  This  was  a  woman  whose 
work  in  the  silk-weaving  industry  was  the  spinning 
of  one  thread  with  another — the  ''joining  on"  for 
the  continuing  of  a  single  piece  of  silk.  For  this 
task  she  came  once  or  twice  a  month,  and  it  re- 
quired exceeding  cleanliness,  skill,  attention,  and 
practice.  So  many  silken  fibres  to  unite,  so  that 
they  should  be,  beyond  all  detection,  continuous! 
This  widow  Flachat,  a  discreet  person  of  very 
respectable  poverty,  used  to  come  in  the  morning, 
bringing  the  milk  which  she  had  bought  in  a  trust- 
worthy dairy,  and  set  straight  about  her  work. 
Her  face  was  bent  over  it  and  raised  no  more. 
Into  the  milk  she  dipped  her  thumb  and  her  index 
finger,  and  with  them  twisted  the  two  threads 
that  seemed  to  melt  under  her  touch  into  one. 
She  took  her  food  in  the  house,  as  the  custom 
is,  and  it  was  easy  for  Pascale,  when  her  father 
left  the  room,  to  consult  the  "tordeuse,"  who 
had  the  art  of  listening  as  well  as  the  art  of  her 
own  work. 

"I  am  not  surprised  at  what  you  tell  me,  my 
little  Pascale,"  she  said,  "and  your  mother  would 
have  been  glad  to  hear  it.  She  liked  church 
services." 

"Well,,  but  I  don't,"  cried  Pascale,  laughing; 


38  THE  NUN 

"I  get  tired  in  church.  I  am  not  quite  what  you 
think  me,  Madame  Flachat." 

"I  know  what  I  mean,"  continued  the  woman, 
twisting  her  threads.  "I  mean  that  your  mother 
was  like  you,  anxious  to  be  better  than  the  rest 
of  us,  and  bound  to  have  trouble.  I  have  been 
through  the  world,  my  girl,  and  I  can  tell  you  that 
it  is  not  an  easy  place.  Are  you  thinking  of  a 
convent?" 

"Yes,  thinking — but  I  don't  exactly  wish  for 
it." 

"Like  a  marriage  one  is  just  wondering  about." 

"Something  like  that." 

"Well,  my  dear,  go  on — don't  be  in  a  hurry, 
don't  be  anxious.  If  your  heart  is  inclined  that 
way,  let  it  go." 

She  spoke  like  wisdom  itself,  and  Pascale  thought 
and  thought  again. 

And  then  it  was  that  in  the  pure,  the  doubtful, 
the  diffident  soul  of  Pascale  Mouvand  arose  the 
wish  for  a  cloistered  life,  wherein  she  believed 
peace  and  security  awaited  her,  that  environment 
of  tenderness,  without  deceit,  without  betrayal, 
of  which  the  dream  had  been  born  with  her.  No 
sudden  illumination,  no  mystic  ardour,  no  vapour 
of  incense,  no  dazzle  of  azure  and  gold,  no  miracu- 
lous love  of  self-sacrifice  led  Pascale  to  the  cloister, 
but  only  the  deliberate  conviction  that  no  other 
way  of  life  could  so  well  develop  what  was  good 
in  her  and  so  well  safeguard  what  was  perilous. 
She  was  afraid,  she  had  seen  the  shelter,  she  sought 
it.  The  thought  of  leaving  her  father  gave  her 
pain,  but  this  other  thought  overcame  it :  that  the 


THE  NUN  39 

conditions  of  safety  are  not  alike  for  all  human 
souls,  but  that  they  are  imperious,  that  they  are 
not  to  be  judged  by  the  faithless,  and  that  there 
is  no  duty  on  earth  that  may  stand  against  them. 
A  religious  vocation  was  no  startling  thing  to 
befall  this  family.  That  old  race  of  Lyons  silk- 
weavers  was  even  as  its  last  descendants,  labori- 
ous, scanty  of  speech,  ardent  at  heart,  capable  of 
long  patience  but  also  of  terrible  revolt,  devout 
and  home-keeping.  Despite  so  much  effort  to 
glorify  ignorance  or  hatred  of  religion  in  the  poor, 
it  kept  its  place  in  the  foremost  rank  of  those 
numerous  families  in  the  Croix  Rousse,  in  the 
Guillotiere,  or  in  Saint-Irenee,  who  look  to  the 
sanctuary  of  Fourviere  for  help,  and  to  the  Virgin 
as  a  friend  to  them  and  to  their  town.  The 
Mouvands  had  taken  part  in  the  foundation  of  the 
ancient  charity  of  the  Hospital  Watchers,  created 
by  the  workmen  of  Lyons  in  1767;  and  at  the 
beginning  of  the  twentieth  century,  Adolphe 
Mouvand  held  that  he  did  himself  honour  by  a 
Sunday  visit  to  the  hospitals,  where  he  shaved  and 
combed  and  brushed  the  poor  patients  as  his 
maternal  great-great-uncle,  Jean  Marie  Moncize- 
rand,  had  done  of  old.  He  had  brought  up  his 
children — he  must  now,  alas!  say  his  child — in 
the  tradition  of  practical  religion,  to  which  he  had 
remained  faithful.  He  would  not  refuse  his  con- 
sent to  Pascale's  wish ;  he  would  not  long  oppose 
her.  But  as  yet  she  had  not  told  him.  She  had 
left  him,  through  pity,  out  of  the  struggle,  out  of 
the  doubt,  out  of  the  dismay  that  so  troubled  her. 
For  their  characters  were  all  unlike.  He  sus- 


40  THE  NUN 

pected  nothing.  And  his  surprise,  his  grief,  per- 
haps his  anger,  when  he  should  know  her  secret — 
it  was  the  apprehension  of  these  that  for  many 
nights,  and  for  this  night  just  past,  had  kept 
Pascale  awake. 

When  she  had  fastened  her  dress  and  pinned 
up  her  hair,  she  threw  over  her  shoulders  a  cape 
of  silky  wool,  entirely  black,  that  had  been  her 
mother's,  brought  the  edges  together  at  her  throat 
with  a  little  metal  bar  set  with  false  turquoises; 
and,  as  she  belonged  to  a  generation  that  was 
"prideful,"  as  the  weaver  said,  she  drew  on  her 
brown  kid  gloves. 

Then  she  had  so  violent  a  beating  of  the  heart 
that  she  needed  to  lean  against  her  bedstead,  one 
hand  upon  her  breast.  ' '  Oh,  tell  me  what  I  ought 
to  say,"  she  whispered.  Slowly  she  opened  her 
door.  The  adjoining  room,  her  father's,  was 
vacant.  Pascale  crossed  it,  turned  at  right  angles, 
and  entered  the  large  workshop  of  the  weaver. 
The  Rambaux  were  at  work  above ;  otherwise  her 
step  on  the  old  floor  would  have  been  audible. 
Adolphe  Mouvand  was  not  at  his  usual  place,  on 
the  bench  before  the  first  loom,  but  at  the  end  of 
the  workshop  near  the  other  machine  which  stood 
dusty  and  motionless  always,  the  old  loom  at 
which  his  wife  had  worked.  No  one  for  three 
years  had  been  allowed  to  touch  this  relic.  The 
weaver  placed  his  hand — a  small  hand,  expert  at 
holding  the  shuttle  in  the  palm — upon  the  wood, 
polished  with  much  usage.  He  looked  at  it  all— 
the  frame,  the  uprights,  the  cardboard  still  hang- 
ing, on  which  was  traced  the  last  pattern  woven 


THE  NUN  41 

by  the  dead.  Mouvand  had  his  face  towards  the 
windows.  The  light,  incomparably  higher  in  tone 
here  than  on  the  river  levels  of  the  city,  struck  out 
the  outline  of  the  master-weaver's  arched  head 
and  square  face,  with  its  thick  and  strong  grey 
beard  pushed  forward  by  his  habitual  attitude  at 
work,  with  his  chin  turned  in  towards  his  breast. 
He  wore  his  black  holiday  clothes.  Amongst  his 
hard,  short  hair  some  locks  whiter  than  the  rest 
shone  like  silvery  antique  plush.  He  was  deep  in 
thought  and  did  not  hear  his  child.  But  his  down- 
ward-sweeping eyes  caught  the  sudden  shadow  on 
the  boards.  And  he  saw  Pascale,  and  all  his  soul 
put  work  and  the  loom  aside,  and  his  eyebrows 
gathered  into  a  frown  as  though  she  had  surprised 
him  in  some  fault.  But  this  was  but  a  momentary 
effect  of  instinct.  To  his  grave  and  weighty  face 
came  joy;  it  lightened  in  his  eyes,  those  laborious 
eyes  so  long  dimmed  like  the  sky  of  the  town; 
made  them  larger;  slightly  rosied  the  parchment 
of  his  cheek ;  and  showed,  beneath  his  moustache, 
the  bold,  ironic  lips  that  had  launched  so  many 
cheerful  words  on  the  Lyons  air,  on  holidays,  or 
in  times  of  strike  or  of  a  lock-out,  when  he  met 
his  friends  in  the  wine-shop  or  played  a  game  at 
bowls  on  the  heights  of  the  Croix  Rousse.  In  the 
twinkling  of  an  eye  the  face,  the  thought,  and 
the  attitude  of  Adolphe  Mouvand  had  changed. 
And  it  was  seldom  indeed  that  he  thus  shone  out 
of  the  sequestered  place  of  his  reserve.  It  was 
the  image  of  Pascale  that  transformed  him,  the 
beloved  Pascale,  coming  to  him  dressed  for  the 
street. 


42  THE  NUN 

"Well,  Pretty,"  said  he,,  for  he  often  called  her 
so.  "You  startled  me." 

He  leant  forward  to  look  at  her  with  his  worn 
eyes. 

"But  what  a  face!  How  pale  you  look!  It's 
not  Ash  Wednesday,  little  girl.  It's  our  own 
Virgin's  holiday,  and  you  and  I  shall  eat  fritters 
together." 

He  kissed  her  on  both  cheeks  with  a  smack. 

"Shall  you  like  it — a  little  treat  of  fritters? 
We'll  buy  them  after  Mass,  at  Bellefin's,  where 
they  are  good.  I  shall  enjoy  going  out  with  you. 
Say,  shall  you  like  it?" 

She  was  embarrassed  by  his  great  good  humour. 
She  kissed  her  father,  and  her  words  died  in  the 
kiss — her  cruel  words. 

"Do  you  know  what  I  was  thinking  of?  I  was 
thinking  of  you,"  he  said.  "Yes,  as  I  handled 
your  mother's  loom,  I  said  to  myself  that  you 
would  never  manage  it.  It's  all  right  for  me,  and 
it  was  all  right  for  her.  My  old  body  and  my  old 
machine  are  good  companions.  But  you — you 
are  not  strong  enough." 

"I  don't  think  I  am." 

"And  then  you  have  no  fancy  for  it." 

She  smiled  and  said: 

"Nor  the  time  either." 

But  he  grasped  nothing  yet,  and  followed  his 
own  thought. 

"You  are  right;  your  mother  would  not  have 
me  teach  you  to  weave  the  fine  silks;  so  I  said 
to  her,  'Then  she  shall  not  do  common  work 
either,'  and  so  we  taught  you  none  of  it.  And 


THE  NUN  43 

you  were  delicate — and  we  spoilt  you  between  us. 
You  learnt  nothing  at  home  but  keeping  house, 
but  that  you  did  well,  little  girl." 

He  paused  for  a  minute,  as  it  were  lapping  her 
in  the  tenderness  of  his  thoughts: 

"But  listen  now.  Old  men  change  their  minds 
sometimes.  I  mean  to  give  in  after  all,  and  have 
electric  power  in  my  workshop.  We'll  sell  the 
mother's  loom,  and  you  shall  just  be  a  kind  of 
overseer.  Or  you  can  try  your  hand  at  a  little 
easy  work — ribbons,  if  you  like.  We  shall  be 
better  off.  What  do  you  think?  " 

She  answered,  turning  to  the  street,  whence  the 
light  was  increasing: 

"You  are  too  kind  to  me.  But  come,  or  we 
shall  miss  Mass." 

They  descended  the  staircase,  which  had  win- 
dows fitted  with  nothing  but  iron  bars.  It  was 
as  windy  there  as  in  the  street. 

"Take  care  and  cover  your  chest;  these  stairs 
have  killed  some  of  us.  And  you,  Pretty,  you've 
got  to  live." 

She  went  down  before  him,  holding  her  cape 
close  to  her  shoulders  and  her  bust.  She  went 
lightly  in  the  fresh  and  animating  air,  and  jumped 
the  three  last  stone  steps,  as  though  to  show  that 
she  was  much  alive  and  that  her  youth  was  not 
failing  her.  Together  the  father  and  daughter 
heard  Mass  at  St.  Bernard's,  which  is  on  the 
heights  of  the  Croix  Rousse,  and  then,  as  the 
father  had  said,  they  went  down  to  the  Rue 
Tables  Claudiennes,  where  was  the  shop  and  frying 
kitchen,  for  the  promised  fritters.  Mouvand  ate 


44  THE  NUN 

his  share  in  the  street;  Pascale  asked  for  a  paper 
bag. 

"  That's  our  young  ladies  of  the  day,  all  over, 
Bellefin,"  he  cried,  "they  won't  live  in  public." 

The  man  within  put  his  head  out  of  his  narrow 
shop,  with  an  expert  old  eye  scanning  Pascale. 

"I  haven't  got  one  like  her,"  he  said.  "You 
are  a  lucky  fellow  to  be  cutting  a  dash  in  town  with 
a  daughter  of  that  kind.  What 's  her  age?" 

"More  than  eighteen,"  replied  Pascale. 

"And  a  voice!  Say  it  again,  it's  like  singing — 
and  I'll  put  an  extra  fritter  into  this  bag  of  yours." 

"Eighteen,  Monsieur  Bellefin,  eighteen,  eigh- 
teen!" 

For  the  first  time  she  laughed  out.  This 
Bellefin  was  droll,  and  had  a  nice  way  of  talking 
to  girls.  She  laughed,  with  her  fresh  lips  apart, 
smooth  as  the  lining  of  a  shell;  and  she  repeated, 
with  her  eyes  on  the  old  bonze  in  his  hollow 
niche,  feeling  that  she  was  made  free  of  the  street 
and  of  the  morning,  "Eighteen  years  old  and 
more !  Now,  Monsieur  Bellefin,  give  me  my  fritter 
with  extra  sugar  on  it." 

It  was  as  though  the  two  men  stood  listening 
to  a  blackbird  that  one  of  them  had  been  training, 
or  to  a  piping  bullfinch  performing  at  a  competition : 
"Aha,  that's  a  note  for  you!  It  would  have  been 
a  pity  not  to  take  pains  writh  this  little  creature." 

On  their  way  back  up  the  hill  Adolphe  Mouvand 
felt  that  he  had  never  before  loved  Pascale  so 
much,  nor  loved  her  so  proudly.  At  the  corner 
of  the  Rue  Tables  Claudiennes,  he  said: 

"There,  go  back  home  to  your  business;    I 


THE  NUN  45 

have  a  good  deal  to  do,  so  don't  expect  me  to 
dinner.  But  be  sure  to  be  up  at  the  Fourviere 
church  at  one  o'clock,  when  the  bell  rings  for  the 
men  to  go  in." 

They  separated  and  spent  the  rest  of  the  morn- 
ing apart.  Mouvand  had  always  balanced  his 
accounts  on  the  eighth  of  December,  and  this 
implied  several  payments,  two  or  three  visits  to 
old  weavers  retired  or  invalided,  and  a  dejeuner 
at  half  past  eleven  with  Constant  Mury,  a  strong 
socialist  of  the  Croix  Rousse,  a  stout  old  weaver 
who  presided  over  the  bowling  ground  of  the 
Pierres  Plante'es.  Before  one  o'clock  he  was  at 
the  Place  de  la  Cathedrale  at  the  foot  of  the  hill 
of  Fourviere.  The  open  space  was  black  with  a 
solid  crowd  of  men,  stationary  there,  but  still 
moving  at  the  openings  of  the  Rue  St.  Jean,  of  the 
Rue  Antonine,  and  of  the  Rue  de  la  Breche, 
whence  new  comers  poured  in.  There  were  none 
but  men  in  the  gathering,  five  or  six  thousand. 
Soon  there  would  be  a  thousand  more,  and  together 
they  would  march  up  the  zig-zag  road  to  the 
Holy  Hill,  to  manifest  in  the  sanctuary  of  their 
city  their  civic  faith. 

The  weaver  greeted  his  mates  here  and  there. 
"I  told  Pascale  the  procession  would  be  a  good 
one.  What  a  crowd!  The  little  girl  must  be 
up  at  the  church  by  now."  He  did  not  go  with 
the  rest,  having  rheumatic  pains  in  his  back  that 
made  the  long  march  too  hard  for  him,  but  went 
up  by  the  funicular  railway  to  the  high  platform, 
the  place  of  refuge,  the  place  near  to  Heaven, 
where  the  basilica  raises  over  the  city  her  four 


46  THE  NUN 

tall  towers,  the  crown  of  Lyons.  He  did  not 
know  it  then,  but  this  hill  was  his  Calvary.  How 
often  do  we  go  even  so,  carrying  our  joys  with 
hardly  a  tremor,  in  spite  of  chance,  to  the  obscure 
place  where  their  unsuspected  close  awaits  us! 
This  man's  heart  was  more  free  than  was  usual 
with  him.  He  had  unaccustomed  leisure,  and 
had  that  morning  been  long  away  from  the  home 
within  which  at  times  he  had  wept.  His  cheerful 
humour  had  been  increased  by  companionship  at 
Constant  Mury's.  As  he  paid  his  swo  sous  to  the 
man  at  the  funicular,  he  said: 

"Your  lift  doesn't  cost  much,  but  it's  a  little 
way.  Have  you  seen  my  girl  ? ' ' 

"I've  seen  a  lot  of  girls,  but  I  am  not  sure  about 
yours." 

"A  pretty  one — mine  is,"  said  Mouvand.  "Fair 
hair,  and  a  fresh  cheek — not  many  quite  like  her. 
And  a  whig  in  her  hat!" 

He  was  right  about  the  hat.  To  please  him  on 
the  holiday,  Pascale  had  put  on  her  felt  hat  with 
a  grey  whig  in  it.  She  was  waiting  for  her  father 
hi  front  of  the  church.  She  walked  quickly  at  his 
side  to  the  place  where  the  head  of  the  procession 
would  soon  appear.  From  below,  the  bell — the 
bourdon — of  Saint  Jean  had  rung  the  note  that 
signalled ' '  They  are  moving. ' '  And  now  the  great 
bell  of  the  Fourviere  mountain,  that  of  the  south- 
east tower,  pealed  aloud  to  hail  the  foremost  pil- 
grims of  the  march. 

They  came  up  bare-headed,  filling  the  whole 
breadth  of  the  street,  almost  every  man  reciting 
the  rosary.  The  road  cast  them  out  opposite 


THE  NUN  47 

the  nave  of  the  church,  and  there  they  turned 
to  the  right,  passing  slowly  with  a  loud  noise  of 
prayers  and  footsteps  through  the  cloister  of  the 
old  chapel,  and  thence  into  the  modern  basilica, 
according  to  the  order  prescribed.  It  was  all  male 
Lyons  that  had  climbed  the  hill — factory  hands, 
shopmen,  clerks,  the  rich,  the  poor,  gathered 
without  class  or  distinction.  And  the  great 
bell  spread  its  deep  voice  over  the  sounds  of 
the  city — a  triumphal  wave,  rolling  above  the 
smoke,  clearing  the  mist,  reaching  far  ahead, 
far  back,  many  a  mile,  over  the  tableland 
of  the  Dombes,  across  the  plain  of  the  Rhone, 
along  the  hills  beyond  Ecully  and  Saint  Foy. 
Then  suddenly  the  carillon  of  the  tower  on 
the  right,  with  its  eleven  brass  notes,  rang 
out  the  tunes  of  the  Virgin's  hymns.  The  men 
sang  within  the  basilica,  and  outside.  And 
while  this  pilgrim  army  was  on  the  march,  all 
the  rocks  of  that  great  hill,  all  the  stones  of  its 
houses,  all  the  bones  of  the  living  and  of  the 
buried  dead  upon  the  heights  vibrated  to  the 
sound  of  the  prayer  that  was  spoken,  was  sung, 
was  tolled. 

At  the  end  of  the  church  Pascale,  who  had 
slipped  in  with  the  crowd  at  her  father's  side, 
stood  against  the  base  of  one  of  the  white  marble 
piers  of  the  nave.  All  the  chairs  had  been  re- 
moved, and  the  sombre-coloured  crowd  of  men, 
filling  the  whole  space,  gave  still  greater  brilliance 
to  the  coloured  decoration  of  walls  and  roof,  the 
mosaics,  the  glass,  the  gilding,  the  great  light 
shadow  all  alive  with  reflections  that  played  and 


48  THE  NUN 

mingled  together  like  the  colours  of  an  opal.  A 
hymn  was  sung.  The  cardinal  entered  and  passed 
before  the  ranks.  A  priest  made  a  short  speech. 
The  throng  was  moved  with  a  common  feeling 
that  was  not  all  devotion ;  it  was  also  the  sense  of 
power  and  of  fraternity,  of  corporate  union  in 
religious  things,  habitual  to  the  forefathers  of 
these  men — their  condition  of  daily  life — but  to 
these  a  matter  of  momentary  experience.  Fre- 
quenters of  a  score  of  churches,  accustomed  to 
meet  by  mere  groups,  used  to  the  life  of  single 
or  solitary  will,  it  was  suddenly  only,  and  briefly, 
that  they  became  consciously  an  army.  And 
hi  that  gathering  each  unit  prayed  his  best;  the 
stranger  was  to  him  a  brother ;  neighbours  forgot 
then*  differences;  it  was  the  acknowledgement 
of  a  common  hope,  in  a  common  humiliation, 
before  a  common  Father.  And  the  prospect  of  a 
common  future  suggested  between  these  strangers 
something  of  courtesy,  something  of  respect,  and 
something  of  the  tryst  eternity. 

Adolphe  Mouvand  was  deep  in  the  solid  life  of 
the  people  of  his  city,  was  by  heredity  and  envi- 
ronment one  of  them,  and  he  could  not  fail  to 
feel  the  expansion  of  happiness  and  pride;  he 
sang  aloud,  he  listened,  he  held  up  his  head ;  and 
his  eyes,  used  to  the  daily  sight  of  machines  and 
bare  walls,  beheld,  wherever  they  glanced  within 
that  church,  the  light  of  Paradise.  He  forgot  to 
look  at  Pascale.  Like  the  rest,  he  knew  nothing 
of  the  symbolism  of  angels  with  open  wings,  of 
peacocks  with  outspread  tails,  but  he  was  well 
aware  that  his  city  had  added  a  new  stanza  to  an 


THE  NUN  49 

old  hymn,  by  raising  to  the  Virgin  a  modern 
church  far  superior,  both  in  feeling  and  in  art,  to 
such  new  churches  as  have  no  soul  unborrowed 
from  the  past. 

The  young  girl  on  her  part  saw  nothing,  ab- 
sorbed as  she  was  by  the  thought  that  distressed 
her.  She  had  leaned  her  head  against  the  marble 
pier,  and  had  closed  her  eyes ;  she  was  hi  trouble, 
for  the  hour  was  near,  and  she  was  motionless,  as 
though  for  fear  that  a  movement  might  bring  the 
hand  of  the  clock  to  the  dreadful  moment.  Calls 
for  help  uttered  themselves  within  her:  "Oh,  my 
God!  it  breaks  my  heart  to  hurt  him.  Nothing 
could  take  me  from  him  but  Thy  own  call.  I  know 
I  need  Thy  shelter  and  the  cover  of  holy  friend- 
ships, for  I  have  no  will  of  my  own  but  the  will 
to  submit  to  those  I  care  for.  Help  me,  because 
even  now  my  cowardly  spirit  would  escape! 
Strengthen  me,  because  he  has  so  many  rights 
over  me  that  I  am  ashamed  to  speak  of  my  rights 
over  myself.  And  yet,  if  I  married,  should  I  not 
have  to  leave  him?  Help  me  to  speak,  help  him 
to  hear  me!" 

The  crowd  was  now  passing  away.  All  those 
near  her  had  risen,  had  left  the  church  and  de- 
scended the  steps  beyond  the  great  bronze  doors, 
when  Pascale  slowly  raised  her  hand  and  laid  it 
on  her  father's  shoulder. 

"Whenever  you  like,  Pretty,"  said  the  weaver, 
rousing  himself.  "I  am  ready." 

He  was  turning  to  leave  the  place,  but  feeling 
her  detaining  hand,  he  asked,  "What  do  you 
want  to  say  to  me?" 


50  THE  NUN 

And  he  leant  his  ear  close  to  the  mouth  that 
looked  so  pale. 

"Father,  I  want  to  speak  to  you  here  because 
God  is  close  to  us " 

She  was  trying  to  break  the  news  to  him,  but 
her  secret  was  too  much  for  her  strength;  it  over- 
came, it  spoke: 

"Forgive  me.    I  want  to  be  a  nun." 

"A  nun?    What  are  you  talking  about?" 

He  saw  that  she  had  turned  ashen  pale,  and 
the  words  he  had  been  about  to  speak  were  dumb 
within  him. 

"Is  it  true?   Do  you  mean  it? " 

She  made  a  frightened  sign  of  affirmation,  as 
though  she  dreaded  that  a  more  positive  reply 
might  kill  him.  But  to  her  great  surprise  Pascale 
did  not  see  him  stagger,  nor  did  she  feel  him  grow 
rigid  in  anger.  He  did  but  draw  himself  somewhat 
towards  the  altar,  and  replied  not  to  her  but  to 
One  who  had  spoken  by  her  mouth. 

"My  God!  is  it  possible?  I  never  thought — 
a  nun — my  girl!" 

And  as  though  her  wish  had  already  sounded 
the  very  depths  of  his  being — the  place  where 
will  abides — Mouvand  said,  with  his  eyes  still  on 
the  golden  door  on  the  altar: 

"Is  it  for  hospital  work  that  you  are  to  leave 
me,  Pascale?" 

"No,  father,  I  shall  go  to  the  Sisters  of  St. 
Hildegarde." 

"To  teach  children?" 

The  low  voice  answered: 

"To  save  my  soul." 


THE  NUN  51 

The  two  were  silent  for  so  long  a  time  as  the 
saying  of  an  Ave  Maria  might  cover.  Then  Pas- 
cale,  raising  her  eyes,  beheld  that  wonderful 
thing,  by  her  undreamed  of — the  victory  of  a 
great  faith  even  at  the  moment  of  the  falling  of 
the  blow.  All  his  saintly  race,  all  his  faithful 
fathers,  dead  and  saved,  doubtless  prayed  for 
the  weaver.  From  his  own  eyes  fell  two  tears, 
and  yet  his  face  was  not  saddened.  Nay,  rather 
joy  grew  there,  and  the  soul  looked  out,  content, 
submissive.  But  a  long  moment  passed  before 
he  could  speak  again.  Then  he  said,  with  his 
face  still  turned  to  the  altar: 

"I  will  not  grudge  you  to  God,  Pascale.  You 
shall  go  where  you  wish." 

Then  he  took  his  daughter  in  one  stout  arm — 
he  was  a  man  of  lively  blood,  unaccustomed  to 
much  meditating — and  drew  her  out  of  the 
church  through  the  open  doors  of  bronze,  and 
down  the  steps,  the  last  of  all  the  pilgrims,  shel- 
tering and  holding  to  his  heart  this  child  promised 
to  God.  It  was  a  King  going  forth  with  a  young 
Queen. 

When  they  were  in  the  place  she  said : 

"How  kind  you  are!    I  was  afraid  to  tell  you." 

He  replied  in  his  great  voice: 

"Silly!    Afraid  of  me?" 

"I  couldn't  sleep;  I  made  up  my  mind  to  tell 
you  in  the  morning." 

"Before  Mass?" 

"Yes." 

"You  did  look — funny.  And  how  long  have 
you  meant  to  be  a  nun?" 


52  THE  NUN 

"Two  years  and  more." 

"Is  that  why  you  got  me  to  go  to  Vespers  so 
often?" 

"Yes,  that  was  it." 

"And  why  you  wouldn't  go  to  the  wedding  of 
the  girl  on  the  first  floor?" 

"Well,  perhaps." 

"And  why  you  wouldn't  let  me  buy  you  a 
brooch  for  your  birthday?" 

"Yes." 

"And  I  never  guessed.  How  easy  it  is  to  hood- 
wink a  father!  I  used  to  say,  'Well,  perhaps 
there's  someone  in  love  with  her.'  You  might 
have  had  someone — a  good  many — in  love  with 
you?" 

She  laughed.  She  knew  that  it  was  so.  They 
turned  into  the  Rue  Juge  de  Paix,  which  skirts 
the  town  towards  the  west. 

"If  you  had  thought  of  marrying,  Pretty, 
you'd  have  had  admirers  enough.  I  think  young 
Rambaux  would  have  had  you?" 

"7  wouldn't  have  had  him" 

"Well,  he  is  not  worth  very  much.  He  works, 
but  that's  not  everything.  It  doesn't  make  a 
man  altogether.  I  know  others  who  had  a  fancy 
for  Pascale." 

"You  had,  first  of  all,"  she  said,  thanking  him 
with  a  look. 

Meanwhile  the  thought  of  parting,  kept  off  for 
a  while,  slipped  into  the  weaver's  mind  with 
many  another.  Sorrow  entered  into  joy.  But 
the  bitter  graft  did  not  at  once  take  hold;  and 
the  tree  of  happiness  flourished. 


THE  NUN  53 

"All  the  same,  I  was  very  happy  in  living 
together,  Pascale.  It  was  not  quite  the  same 
thing  to  you,  may  be?  " 

"Oh,  yes,  it  was!" 

"Since  we  lost  your  mother,  it  is  quite  likely 
I've  been  out  rather  too  often  on  Sundays." 

"Oh  no." 

"Played  bowls  too  much?  Perhaps  I  should 
have  taken  out  my  Pascale?" 

"Well,  I  should  have  enjoyed  it,  but  that 
would  not  have  changed  my  mind." 

"What  made  you  think  of  it  first?" 

She  said,  shaking  her  head: 

"I  felt  myself  to  be  veiy  weak." 

He  understood  nothing,  being  very  little  used 
to  look  at  things  from  within,  and  he  merely 
made  a  sign  of  assent.  They  were  walking 
between  walls  rusty  or  green  with  moss,  the 
walls  of  convents  or  of  mission  houses  and  alms- 
houses,  and  the  road  turned  and  turned,  but 
silence  was  complete  around  them.  Here  and 
there  an  overhanging  bough  of  plane  or  elder 
tree  blessed  the  wayfarer. 

Pascale,  once  more  absorbed  hi  her  perpetual 
thought,  but  now  at  ease  and  even  joyous,  walked 
some  hundred  paces  without  speaking ;  and  then, 
feeling  that  her  father  had  not  quite  understood 
her,  she  added: 

"You  see,  I  want  a  rule,  if  I  am  really  to  be 
good." 

"You  were  good  enough  for  me,"  said  the 
weaver,  in  a  low  voice.  But  he  quickly  added, 
to  correct  the  blasphemy:  "I  know  there  is  An- 


54  THE  NUN 

other  not  so  easily  pleased.  Pascale,  I  say  it 
again,  I  shall  not  stand  against  it.  No,  I  promise 
you  that." 

Both  workman  and  child  together  were  light 
of  heart,  and  their  joy  was  devout,  but  it  was 
also  hasty.  They  knew  it  to  be  eternal  hi  its 
source,  but  transitory  in  their  human  hearts. 
And  both  hoped  to  reach  the  country  of  the  future 
where  it  would  be  lasting;  and  they  had  no 
shadow  of  doubt  that  they  were  acting  according 
to  the  order  and  the  will  that  are  divine. 

"A  nun — "  repeated  Mouvand.  "No,  when 
the  time  comes,  I  shall  not  stop  her." 

When  the  time  comes — here  was  grief  revisiting 
the  father's  heart.  Pascale  had  not  told  him 
when  she  must  go.  Her  father  had  not  asked  her. 
The  stress  of  feeling  had  hidden  the  distress.  He 
tried  to  evade  the  question  arising  within  him, 
the  question  growing  instant,  soon  to  become 
agonising — "  When  will  she  go?  When  will  she 
leave  me  alone?"  He  said: 

"I  don't  rightly  recollect  any  nun  in  our  family, 
except  only  a  great-grandaunt.  But  that  was 
so  far  back — I  heard  of  it  when  I  was  a  child." 

The  Rue  Juge  de  Paix  and  the  Rue  Quatre 
Vents  were  reddened  by  the  sunset.  Near  to  its 
final  decline,  the  sun  passed  quickly  through 
the  lurid  mists,  piercing  them  with  outlets  of 
.crimson  and  gold  over  which  the  clouds  again 
gathered,  to  be  again  shot  through.  Pascale  and 
her  father  were  now  before  the  gateway  of  the 
great  cemetery  of  Loyasse,  on  the  western  sum- 
mit and  slope  of  the  height.  They  were  making 


THE  NUN  55 

their  customary  visit  to  a  grave,  for  on  each 
eighth  of  December  Adolphe  Mouvand  came 
hither;  and  to-day  he  was  urged  by  something 
more  than  habit.  The  district  of  Saint  Irenee, 
close  by,  had  been  the  cradle  of  his  race.  The 
graves  of  the  old  weavers  were  there,  or  had  been, 
for  the  poor  have  none  but  temporary  homes  in 
the  burial-ground,  and  are  turned  away  from 
their  graves  when  the  rent  is  over-due,  as  they 
were  from  their  houses  when  they  lived,  from 
their  poor  rooms,  or  from  the  workshops  of  their 
masters. 

Between  two  little  pollard  trees  stood  side  by 
side  the  crosses  of  the  grandfather  and  the  mother 
of  Pascale.  By  the  principal  avenue  of  leafless 
sycamores  the  father  and  daughter  reached  the 
limit  of  the  plateau  containing  the  Concessions 
perpetuelles,  the  graves  of  private  ownership  that 
would  never  be  disturbed ;  thence  began  the  steep 
incline,  black  above,  fringed  with  white  below. 
For  here  lay  the  poor,  adults  in  the  upper  part, 
children  at  the  foot,  and  the  graves  were  covered 
with  black  bead  wreaths  on  the  hill  and  white  in 
the  valley.  The  man  and  the  girl  had  brought 
new  wreaths  for  their  dead,  and  they  knelt,  having 
spread  their  handkerchiefs  under  their  knees,  and 
their  prayer  was  fervent  and  full  of  life  and  truth. 
The  face  of  the  weaver  grew  tender,  his  beard 
moved  as  though  he  spoke,  he  passed  his  hand 
across  his  eyes  to  control  his  tears.  Then  he  rose, 
and  with  his  knife  began  to  trim  the  grave,  over- 
grown and  neglected  for  lack  of  time  to  spare,  and 
because  of  the  great  distance.  To  Pascale  kneel- 


56  THE  NUN 

ing  alone  it  seemed  that  something  of  herself,  of 
her  heart  or  her  thought,  something  tender,  was 
finding  a  way  through  the  wet  grass  and  reaching 
the  ear  of  the  dead  woman,  saying:  " Mother,  I 
am  going  to  the  convent;  I  have  come  to  tell 
you.  Give  me  your  blessing.  I  am  like  you,  I 
feel  so  much.  Don't  be  uneasy  for  me.  I  shall 
have  less  to  suffer  where  I  am  go'ng  than  you  had 
in  your  married  life,  Mother.  I  think  perhaps  it 
was  you  who  deserved  that  I  should  have  this 
better  life.  I  shall  pray  for  you,  and  that  will  be 
my  way  of  coming  to  you,  for  I  shall  hardly  be 
able  to  come  up  to  Loyasse.  You  will  know  that 
I  am  all  right.  I  wish,  Mother,  you  could  have 
seen  me  in  my  veil.  You  would  havfc  cried,  though. 
You  would  have  understood,  all  the  same.  I  give 
you  a  kiss  through  the  earth  and  the  stones.  I 
am  your  child,  and  I  thank  you  for  all  my  child- 
hood that  has  brought  me  to  this." 

She  rose.  Her  father,  who  had  begun  to  think 
of  home  by  the  cross  of  his  wife,  closed  the  blade 
of  his  knife,  which  snapped  with  a  click,  and  said : 

"You  are  very  young,  Pascale ;  there's  no  hum-. 
\Yhen  do  you  think  of  beginning?" 

They  were  now  walking  back  along  the  avenue. 
At  first  she  answered  nothing,  in  pity  for  him, 
and  next  she  took  his  arm  so  that  her  caress 
might  assure  him  of  her  love. 

"You  are  very  young,"  he  said  again. 

A  little  further  yet  they  walked,  and  leaving 
Loyasse  they  followed  the  road  that  leads  to  the 
right  by  the  old  fortifications.  Mouvand  was 
waiting,  in  much  trouble,  for  her  reply.  She  felt 


THE  NUN  57 

that  he  was  pressing  her  arm  as  though  to  say: 
"Come,  Pretty,  out  with  it.  I  know,  I  under- 
stand." 

She  said:  "I  should  like  to  go  in  at  Christmas 
— into  the  novitiate." 

"At  Christmas,  Pascale!  At  Christmas  I  shall 
be  without  you!" 

Steadfast  as  he  was,  and  gay,  and  not  used  to 
complain  or  accuse,  he  was  forced  to  stop;  he 
breathed  hard,  his  eyes  closed  as  though  he  had 
made  an  effort  too  great  for  his  strength. 

"Oh!"  cried  Pascale,  "don't  make  me  cry; 
I  am  such  a  weak  creature,  even  when  I  see  my 
duty  clearly  enough;  and  if  you  let  me  see  how 
sorry  you  are,  I  might  not  go  at  all.  And  all  the 
while  I  am  quite  sure  that  God  calls  me." 

Adolphe  Mouvand  was  one  to  whom  reverence 
for  the  name  of  God  gave  strength  against  himself. 

"You  are  right,"  he  said  at  once,  but  slowly. 
"I  must  be  brave.  It  is  a  great  blessing  to  us." 

"How  well  you  understand,  father!" 

"Yes — a  great  favour.  I  try  to  do  right  with 
my  hospital  work ;  but  this  is  better.  Well,  Pas- 
cale, you  must  not  sacrifice  your  youth  to  my  age. 
Go  and  live  your  right  life,  as  our  fathers  lived 
theirs — they  knew  the  way,  Pascale!" 

He  had  been  so  thoroughly  trained  in  ideal  and 
habitual  religion  that  the  highest  and  most  ideal 
thoughts  on  duty,  on  conduct,  on  the  aims  of  the 
soul,  were  to  him  familiar.  As  he  spoke  the 
weaver  went  "up  the  crest  of  the  table-land,  the 
place  once  a  fortress  of  the  Romans,  and  still 
bearing,  on  the  west,  traces  of  the  long  glacis  and 


58  THE  NUN 

walls.  Pascale  had  followed  her  father,  and  was 
resting  her  hand  on  the  stones  of  the  parapet. 

He  stretched  forth  his  arm.  " There,"  he  said, 
"is  Saint  Irenee,  where  all  the  Mouvands  came 
from,  and  there  is  the  town.  But  we  can't  quite 
see  our  own  place  from  here." 

Before  and  below  them  in  a  deep  fold  of  the 
valley,  the  old  working  district  of  Saint  Irenee, 
coloured  a  soft,  faded  pink,  thronged  its  houses 
together,  so  closely  that  here  and  there  two  or 
three  looked  as  though  they  had  been  lifted — 
ever  so  little — above  the  rest  by  the  pressure. 
Over  them  all  floated  the  misty  smoke.  A  steep, 
wooded  height  rose  beyond,  and  further  than  the 
tree  tops  again  were  hills  and  more  hills,  vaguer 
and  vaguer  in  the  fading  light,  following  the  rivers 
into  which  their  spurs  were  dipped.  On  that  side, 
very  low  down  to  the  left,  lay  what  Mouvand 
called  the ' l  town. ' '  But  it  was  the  town  and  some- 
thing more.  Beyond  the  invisible  Saone,  where  it 
turned  by  the  rocks  of  Fourviere  and  Saint  Just, 
lay  the  whole  southern  part  of  the  huge  city,  the 
peninsula  of  Perrache,  the  Rhone,  the  point  of  the 
district  of  La  Guillotiere,  the  district  of  La 
Mouche;  meadows  mingled  with  building  and 
with  scattered  poplars;  green  country  with  no 
limit  except  the  dusky  mist ;  and  the  great  river, 
made  of  the  Saone  and  the  Rhone  together,  catch- 
ing the  light  and  then  passing  into  the  dimness, 
on  its  journey  to  the  south. 

Pascale  and  her  father  looked  down  at  the 
town.  It  was  veiled  by  a  transparent  fog,  coloured 
by  the  evening.  Five  hundred  thousand  human 


THE  NUN  59 

creatures  were  there.  It  was  their  breath,  full 
of  their  many  sufferings,  it  was  the  smoke  of  their 
hearths  and  of  their  machinery,  it  was  the  dust  of 
their  use  and  their  activity,  that  formed  this  cloud. 
The  tangled  noises  of  the  multitude  rose  with  it. 
Father  and  daughter,  beholding  this  apparition 
of  their  own  city,  were  silent.  The  weaver  thought 
of  his  toil,  of  which  the  odour  and  the  vibration 
were  about  his  fancy  again,  drawing  him  down  to 
his  little  private  cell  in  the  hive  before  him.  It 
was  his;  it  was  empty.  He  shook  his  head  and 
muttered  in  his  beard : 

"Not  to-day.  This  is  a  holiday.  And  to- 
morrow will  be  a  holiday  too,  because  of  the  little 
girl — a  holiday  for  old  Mouvand." 

But  that  city  fog  enclosed  cries  and  lamenta- 
tions, the  breath  of  the  sick  and  the  fever-stricken, 
words  of  hatred,  words  of  revolt,  cries  of  despair. 
And  Pascale,  who  was  going  into  the  Convent 
"to  save  her  soul,"  but  to  save  it  by  devoting  it, 
understood  that  mingling  of  human  voices,  opened 
her  breast  to  that  tide  of  pain,  filled  her  being, 
filled  her  heart,  as  she  thought:  "Miseries  are 
there  below  such  as  I  shall  help.  I  shall  teach  the 
children  at  any  rate,  and  they  will  surely  love  me. 
I  shall  be  their  mother  always."  And  her  heart 
dilated  and  was  so  happy  that  she  would  have 
stayed  there  long  had  not  her  father  stirred  his 
great  iron-bound  boots. 

"Come,  Pretty,  we  have  a  long  way  to  go." 

They  said  no  more,  but  the  course  of  their 
thoughts  had  changed.  Pascale's  vocation,  now 
certain,  absorbed  all  her  power  of  dreaming;  the 


60  THE  NUN 

old  weaver,  an  enthusiast,  and  a  child  despite  his 
years,  little  spoilt  by  life,  was  looking  forward  to 
making  a  good  use  of  the  days  before  Pascale's 
departure.  He  filled  them  in  anticipation  with 
treats  for  Pascale,  with  excursions.  For  the  first 
time  he  thought  with  excitement  of  the  coming 
holidays.  He  was  dazzled. 

Pascale  and  her  father  followed  the  road  of 
the  fortifications  as  far  as  the  gate  of  St.  Irene"e. 
Night  had  now  fully  come ;  the  fog  that  had  been 
parted  by  the  dying  sun  met  again  and  closed  his 
tomb.  It  was  heavy  on  men's  shoulders.  Mou- 
vand,  who  was  not  fond  of  the  open  air  at  this 
hour,  when,  as  he  said,  "bad  things  fall  on  us," 
proposed  a  supper  at  an  inn  he  knew  in  the  lower 
part  of  Saint  Irenee.  They  entered  under  the 
great  gateway,  and  sought  the  inn,  its  shelter  and 
warmth. 

When  they  again  left  it,  seven  o'clock  was 
near.  Restored  after  the  fatigue  of  the  day, 
glad  to  have  had  more  than  usual  intimacy  in 
their  talk,  pleased  with  the  luxury  of  holiday 
food,  they  went  quickly  down  the  steep  streets 
from  Saint  Irenee  to  the  quays  of  the  Saone. 
They  were  midway  on  the  foot-bridge  that  creaks 
under  the  feet  of  wayfarers,  when  at  the  stroke 
of  seven  all  the  bells  of  the  city  took  flight.  They 
cried,  "Light  up!"  And  in  a  moment  the  lines 
of  gas  lights  multiplied.  Above,  below,  aloft,  in 
the  invisible  facades  of  innumerable  houses  to 
the  right,  to  the  left,  new  lines  and  curves  of  lights 
sprang  upon  the  night.  They  appeared  with 
strange  quickness  and  caprice,  breaking  up  the 


THE  NUN  61 

customary  form  of  bridges,  squares,  and  streets. 
Windows,  archways,  doorways  were  traced  in  fire. 
The  quays  sparkled,  the  heights  of  Fourviere  were 
enkindled;  the  belfry  of  the  old  church  rose  in 
golden  stars  from  the  heart  of  the  darkness;  a 
luminous  cross,  erect  on  the  terrace  of  the  basilica, 
raised  its  arms  over  the  city;  the  Archbishop's 
house  became  a  palace  of  fire;  inscriptions  came 
out  in  lights  on  the  hill-side:  "Lyon  a  Marie" — 
"Maria  Mater  Dei" — "Dieu  protege  la  France." 
Garlands,  festoons,  lamps  in  drinking  glasses, 
Venetian  lanterns,  candles  stuck  into  the  necks  of 
bottles,  flickered  in  the  wind  of  little  by-streets,  of 
cross-roads  and  squares,  telling  those  who  might 
have  doubted  that  the  slums  were  full  of  souls, 
and  the  huge  city  of  faith.  Not  Fourviere  only, 
but  the  whole  of  Lyons  was  illuminated. 

Pascale,  delighted,  Mouvand,  very  demonstra- 
tive, took  one  street  and  then  another,  followed 
random  groups,  left  them,  returned  often  to  the 
Saone,  and  went  on  still  unsatisfied  with  seeing. 

"How  beautiful  the  illumination  is  this  year!" 
they  said  to  one  another.  "  Let's  go  now  and 
see  whether  the  Bourbonnes  have  lighted  up,  and 
the  Boffards.  When  we  go  home,  we'll  see 
whether  the  Seignemontes  have  any  lamps  out." 
And  lamps  were  everywhere.  The  distant  hill 
of  the  Croix  Rousse  seemed  to  be  sprinkled  with 
sparks.  La  Guillotiere  looked  as  phosphorescent 
as  the  sea.  "All  the  stars  are  on  earth  to-night," 
said  the  weaver ;  "it  is  a  pretty  holiday."  In  fact, 
there  were  neither  moon  nor  stars  in  the  skies,  but 
only  the  cloud  of  fog  and  mist  lighted  from  be- 


62  THE  NUN 

neath  and  tinted  now  by  man,  as  before  by  the 
sun. 

Long  wandered  Adolphe  Mouvand  with  Pascale 
upon  his  arm  in  the  innumerable  multitude  that 
the  illumination  and  the  shops  had  called  into  the 
streets.  They  exchanged  words  and  thoughts, 
having  no  secrets,  and  with  an  infinite  sweetness. 
Of  some  poor  scanty  past  pleasures  they  spoke, 
with  recollections  and  allusions  that  had  no 
meaning  but  for  themselves.  But  now  and  then, 
at  the  close  of  this  great  day  of  the  revelation  of 
the  soul,  a  religious  thought,  an  idea  of  sacrifice 
and  of  Paradise,  came  to  one  or  the  other.  They 
were  like  two  neighbour  chapels  whence  rose  the 
notes  of  the  self-same  hymn.  They  loved  each 
other  more  than  ever,  and  were  not  shy  in  telling 
each  other  that  dear  truth.  And  when  they 
went  home,  late  at  night,  father  and  daughter 
could  have  wept  for  joy  because  of  the  grief  which 
together  they  had  accepted  and  taken  home. 

On  the  following  morning  Adolphe  Mouvand 
drew  near  to  Pascale,  who  was  lighting  the  stove 
for  the  warming  of  the  coffee,  and  said,  rubbing 
his  hands: 

"I  have  an  idea — it's  my  turn."  He  struck  his 
pocket.  "I  had  put  some  coins  away — not  many. 
I  should  be  sorry  to  spend  them  without  you. 
What  do  you  say  to  taking  a  journey?" 

"Well— where?" 

"As  far  as  Nimes,  where  our  only  living  relatives 
are — the  Prayous.  You  never  saw  them,  but 
you  shall  see  them  now.  Three  days'  holiday, 
Mouvand,  my  boy,  like  a  gentleman!" 


THE  NUN  63 

"Just  what  I  should  love,"  said  the  happy 
Pascale.  ' '  A  journey !  It  will  give  me  something 
to  talk  about,  later  on,  to  my  little  girls." 

He  had  but  to  write  to  the  Prayous,  and  to 
finish  a  piece  of  silk  he  had  promised;  and  in  the 
morning,  two  days  later,  the  weaver  and  his 
daughter  took  the  train  for  the  South. 

They  set  forth  in  fog;  they  reached  Ntmes  in 
the  splendour  of  a  winter  day,  in  the  clear,  thrill- 
ing, living  cold  of  the  mistral  wind. 

"How  keen  it  is!"  said  Mouvand,  putting  his 
hand  out  of  the  carriage  window. 

"How  bright  it  is!"  said  Pascale;  "like  the 
summer  light  with  us." 

The  castle  of  Tarascon,  the  castle  of  Beaucaire, 
the  Rhone  between  them,  with  the  reflections  of 
each  castled  hill  in  the  sunny  river;  then  the  walls 
of  old  enclosures,  built  foursquare,  looking  like 
fortresses,  with  their  straight  cypresses — lances 
planted  hi  the  soil  and  keeping  guard  to  the  north ; 
next,  the  first  houses  of  Nimes,  white  in  the  sun- 
all  were  mirrored  in  Pascale's  golden  eyes.  As  to 
the  weaver,  he  seldom  glanced  through  the  car- 
riage windows;  he  smoked,  looking  continually 
at  his  child — two  true  pleasures.  Father  and 
daughter  had  spoken  little  on  the  journey,  but 
each  had  felt  that  joy  of  another  which  brings 
peace  to  the  gentle  heart. 

At  the  Ntmes  station,  hardly  were  they  on  the 
platform  when  a  stout  woman,  black-haired  and 
swarthy,  ran  up  to  the  weaver  and  noisily  kissed 
him. 

"There  you  are!    Why,  it  was  a  surprise!    I 


64  THE  NUN 

never  thought  I  should  see  you  again,  cousin. 
And  little  Pascale,  where  is  she?  What,  this  great 
girl?  And  to  think  I  saw  her  when  she  was  three! 
Well,  she  is  a  brave  lass!" 

"And  a  pretty  one,  too/'  said  a  voice  behind 
her. 

Pascale  smiled  before  she  saw  the  speaker,  and 
smiled  again  when  she  perceived  a  tall  young  man 
of  slender  figure,  very  pale,  very  young,  with  the 
regular  beauty  of  a  statue  in  the  upper  part  of 
his  face,  but  a  prominent,  coarse  jaw.  A  short 
moustache  and  curly  beard  partly  concealed  this 
ominous  lower  part  of  a  handsome  face,  and  the 
sinuous  lips.  The  eyes  were  soft  as  velvet.  The 
man  held  out  his  hand. 

"Mademoiselle,"  he  said,  showing  his  teeth, 
"will  you  excuse  me?  Here  at  Nimes,  when  we 
admire  a  beautiful  girl  we  have  to  let  her  know 
it." 

"There  is  no  offence  in  that,"  said  Pascale. 
Flattered,  she  gave  him  her  hand,  while  his  mother 
kissed  the  young  girl,  and  seized  her  valise. 

"Ah!  the  rogue,  he's  a  judge.  And  only 
twenty!  Would  you  think  it?  This  way — we 
live  quite  near.  And  what  do  you  think  of  the 
South?" 

"Well,  I  think  it  is  cold,"  said  the  weaver. 

"Just  a  touch  of  the  mistral,  a  touch  of  the 
broom  that  sweeps  our  Rhone  valley,"  said  the 
young  man,  who  had  taken  his  place  at  Pascale's 
side  and  walked  on  with  her,  while  behind  came 
the  weaver  in  his  horn-buttoned  jacket  and  the 
stout  woman,  bareheaded,  with  a  scanty  knot  of 


THE  NUN  65 

hair  and  wide  partings  between  her  oily  locks. 
She  had  the  muscles,  the  appearance,  and  the 
bearing  of  a  professional  swimmer.  She  carried 
the  valise,  of  which  every  now  and  then  Mouvand 
offered  to  relieve  her.  Jules  Prayou  walked 
empty-handed  and  showed  Pascale  the  town; 
the  fine  plane-trees — now  leafless — of  the  Feu- 
chere  avenue,  the  esplanade  and  the  Pradier 
fountain,  and  the  amphitheatre,  which  they 
skirted.  The  wind  was  high;  it  swathed  the 
women's  petticoats  about  their  legs. 

"It  does  push  one,"  said  Pascale.  "It  seems 
to  want  to  hurry  me  into  your  Rue  de  Montpellier." 

"You  shall  see  finer  streets  to-morrow,"  said 
Jules  Prayou;  "this  is  only  an  old  one.  See! 
here  is  the  hospital." 

He  pointed  out  a  monumental  doorway  fram- 
ing bars  through  which  were  visible  a  further  and 
smaller  barred  gateway,  and  ancient  buildings  sur- 
rounding a  square. 

"My  late  husband  died  here,"  said  the  widow 
in  a  religious  tone,  from  behind. 

"Did  he  leave  you  comfortable,  cousin?"  asked 
the  weaver,  whose  sensibilities  were  not  very 
ready  at  call. 

"Well,  something;  a  little  plot,  some  olive 
trees.  But  that  big  fellow  there  is  an  expense, 
Monsieur  Mouvand." 

"What  does  he  do?    No  work?" 

The  woman  answered  in  her  Southern  way  with 
a  vivacious  gesture,  as  though  to  signify  that  he 
had  a  great  variety  of  employments,  all  of  un- 
certain profit;  she  gathered  together  the  five 


66  THE  NUN 

fingers  of  her  left  hand  and  then  waved  them 
apart  like  little  waves  flowing  away,  stretching  her 
arm  towards  the  horizon. 

"But  they  say  you  are  well  off,  old  man,"  she 
said  familiarly.  And  with  this  affirmation,  which 
was  but  a  furtive  question,  she  gave  him  a  sudden 
and  envious  glance  of  quite  astonishing  sharpness. 
He  walked  heavily,  swinging  his  bent  shoulders. 

"That's  a  he,  then,"  he  said;  "a  fortune  is  not 
to  be  made  out  of  mere  good  work." 

Meanwhile,  Pascale,  who  was  evidently  more 
taken  by  the  attentions,  the  alertness,  and  the 
brave  manner  of  Jules  Prayou  than  by  the  rough 
advances  of  the  weavers'  sons  of  the  Croix  Rousse, 
spoke  to  him  as  though  she  wished  to  thank  him 
for  his  confidence: 

"The  hospital?  I  had  thoughts  at  one  time  of 
being  a  Sister  of  Saint  Vincent  de  Paul." 

"What  a  strange  idea!" 

"Why?"  she  asked  innocently.  "It  would  be 
a  good  thing  to  give  one's  life  to  the  sick.  It  is 
work  well  worth  doing.  But  it  wants  more 
strength  than  I  have,  and  more  courage.  I  have 
such  a  horror  of  blood — I  cannot  get  over  it." 

"Ah,  yes?" 

"I  can't  bear  to  see  a  wound,  nor  even  to  hear 
about  it,  without  turning  faint.  Can  you?" 

A  laugh  was  his  answer. 

She  proceeded :  ' '  That  is  why  I  chose  a  teaching 
Order." 

"Oh,  then  you  are  a  kind  of  bigot,  are  you?" 

Jules  Prayou  took  two  or  three  steps  forward, 
and  turned  to  look  at  her,  studying  her  with  an 


THE  NUN  67 

insistence  which  she  took  for  interest.  Had  she 
been  able  to  read  his  look,  until  that  moment 
ingratiating,  she  would  have  seen  it  suddenly  turn 
hard,  like  a  stone  stripped  of  its  moss.  For  some 
minutes  he  ceased  to  take  any  notice  of  Pascale, 
and  even  walked  on  a  little  before  her.  They 
were  passing  along  the  edge  of  the  wide  cattle 
market,  and  Jules  Prayou,  recognising  here  and 
there,  about  the  market  or  at  the  neighbouring 
windows,  young  butchers  or  drovers  of  his  ac- 
quaintance, of  Provence  or  from  the  Cevennes, 
greeted  them  with  a  wave  of  his  thick  and  fleshy 
hand.  He  called  out  words,  besides,  that  Pascale 
did  not  understand.  It  amused  her  to  watch  the 
drama  of  head,  eyebrows,  eyelids,  fingers,  in  this 
young  man,  who  seemed  to  know  everybody.  A 
wide  boulevard  ran  across  the  road.  The  wind 
grew  tempestuous.  It  raised  the  dust  hi  deep 
wreaths  and  tossed  it  against  the  small  trees 
planted  in  the  aisles  of  the  avenue.  But  the 
brilliance  of  the  sky  was  untroubled,  and  looked 
immutable.  This  was  the  South — the  sculpture 
of  desiccated  earth  under  the  blue.  To  the  right 
stood  the  Magne  Tower,  a  golden  and  rosy  prow 
above  the  pine-garden  of  the  fountain,  steadfast 
in  the  mistral  wind. 

They  crossed  the  boulevard  and  reached  the 
Cadereau,  the  torrent  that  runs  by  Nimes,  sepa- 
rating the  southern  town  from  that  other  part 
which  rises  by  hillocks  and  hills  towards  the  table- 
land of  the  Cevennes.  There  lived  the  Prayous. 

"A  hundred  steps  more,"  said  Jules,  "and  we 
shall  drink  a  glass  of  carthagene  to  lay  the  dust. 


68  THE  NUN 

Have  you  never  tasted  carthagene,  Mademoiselle 
Pascale?" 

"I  never  have,  indeed." 

"It's  the  new  wine — the  must,  just  as  it  comes 
out  of  the  wine-press,  with  a  glass  of  brandy 
thrown  in.  It's  a  treat — wait  and  see." 

"Oh,  this  is  country,"  cried  Pascale,  "and 
houses — just  an  avenue  of  country  houses.  This 
is  where  you  live?  It  is  very  pretty." 

"It  is  called  Montauri,  at  your  service." 

The  golden  eyes  welcomed  with  a  youthful  joy 
the  image  of  the  charming  hill  covered  with 
orchards  and  olive  trees,  very  slightly  green,  a 
smoke  of  thin  foliage  scattered  over  the  ground, 
with  white  houses,  near  which  stood  erect  the 
dark  shapes  of  cypress  and  stone  pine. 

The  two  couples  followed  the  torrent  for  a  few 
moments,  passed  the  tank  for  washing  by  the 
roadside,  and  turning  once  to  the  right  by  a 
bridge  across  the  Cadereau,  entered  a  single  road, 
a  kind  of  sketch  of  a  future  suburb,  crossed  by 
three  little  lanes,  and  climbing  uphill  between 
wide  cultivated  lands  full  of  olive  trees.  At  two- 
thirds  of  the  length  of  the  unfinished  road,  which 
ended  in  a  hedge,  and  just  beyond  the  second 
transverse  lane,  on  the  left,  Jules  Prayou  pushed 
open  a  door. 

"Come  in,  Mademoiselle;  come  in,  Monsieur 
Mouvand.  It  is  not  a  palace;  but  in  ten  years' 
time,  instead  of  this  shed,  I  shall  have  my  pretty 
little  country  house  on  the  hill." 

"He  seems  full  of  enterprise,"  said  the  weaver 
to  the  widow  Prayou. 


THE  NUN  69 

"Like  his  father,  and  more.  Perhaps  a  little 
too  much  of  that,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice,  showing 
her  cousin  in.  "What  he  says  I  have  to  swear 
to." 

"That's  not  so  well." 

She  stopped  him  on  the  threshold.  "And  when 
he  is  in  a  rage  with  me,  it's  a  terror  to  the  neigh- 
bourhood. And  strong  too!" 

She  accompanied  her  last  words  with  a  grimace 
of  admiration;  and  the  weaver  entered  the  door 
on  the  left  of  the  passage  separating  the  two  rooms 
of  the  cottage.  On  the  table  in  the  middle,  which 
was  covered  with  a  white  oil-cloth  bound  with 
black,  were  placed  four  claret  glasses  full  of 
carthagene.  A  provencal  sideboard  of  light- 
coloured  wood,  fitted  with  iron  and  containing  the 
plates  and  dishes,  gave  the  place  its  character  as  a 
dining-room  for  great  occasions.  The  bed  filled  a 
large  space  to  the  right  of  the  window. 

"Jules'  place  is  at  the  end  of  the  garden," 
added  the  woman,  showing  through  the  window 
a  little  house  of  two  floors.  "There  he  lives,  like 
a  prince.  He  is  to  give  you  your  lodging  to- 
night." 

Tired  with  the  journey,  keen  of  appetite  be- 
cause of  the  cold,  and  pleased  with  the  novelty 
of  Nimes,  Adolphe  Mouvand  did  honour  to  the 
local  popular  drink,  and  to  the  dinner  prepared 
by  the  widow.  Afterwards  Pascale  and  her 
father  were  conducted  to  the  little  building  at  the 
end  of  the  garden  enclosure,  where  Jules  Prayou 
had  his  usual  dwelling.  The  father  slept  on  the 
ground  floor,  next  to  a  lumber  room  that  served 


70  THE  NUN 

as  a  lobby,  and  the  girl  had  the  little  garret  above, 
where  the  widow  had  arranged  a  bed.  Jules 
Prayou  was  to  sleep,  apparently,  hi  some  corner  of 
the  cottage  in  which  his  mother  lived;  they  saw 
no  more  of  him  until  ten  o'clock  the  next  morning. 

When  she  awoke,  Pascale  had  the  surprise  of 
a  town  girl  who  likes  the  country  by  a  sense  of 
contrast  and  of  privation,  and  who  fancies  that 
she  brings  something  of  it  into  the  town,  after  a 
Sunday  walk,  when  she  carries  a  little  scrap  of 
hawthorn  or  of  lilac  between  her  teeth.  Through 
her  uncurtained  window  Pascale  saw  the  heights 
of  Montauri,  and  in  the  foreground  a  wide  piece 
of  waste  land,  upon  which  opened  the  yards  and 
gardens  of  the  neighbours,  a  space  of  unequal 
grass,  interrupted  by  hollows  that  looked  like 
old  chalk-pits,  and  sprinkled  with  unused  stones 
and  clumps  of  thistle  and  other  plants  of  hardy 
stalks,  discoloured  by  the  whiter,  on  which  women 
dried  their  household  cloths.  The  pasture  be- 
longed to  the  Prayous,  being  the  remainder  of  the 
land  bought  by  the  father,  who  had  built  upon  it 
three  small  houses,  his  own  and  those  that  flanked 
it.  Beyond,  the  pale  olive  orchards  clouded  the 
hills,  enclosed  in  low  terrace  walls,  and  distinct 
among  those  clouds  rose  thin  almond  trees,  tufts 
of  laurels,  of  pines,  of  pomegranate  trees,  of  oaks 
gathered  about  the  country  houses,  with  a  general 
air  of  southern  carelessness.  Nothing  was  very 
straight  or  neat  or  orderly. 

Above  all — and  Pascale's  fancy,  easily  charmed 
by  the  sense  of  repose  and  sweetness,  rested  there 
—the  lovely  sky  enveloped  in  light  the  cultivation 


THE  NUN  71 

garlanded  with  trees,  and  looked  more  limpid 
than  ever.  She  could  see  great  distances,  and 
could  distinguish  the  leafless  branches  which  the 
far  hill  turned  to  the  warmer  south.  There  was 
gold  and  blue  and  fairness  in  the  sunward  sky,  in 
place  of  the  lurid  mists  of  that  familiar  smoke  of 
Lyons  which  was  always  so  harsh  to  her  lungs  and 
so  cold  to  her  heart.  Yes,  the  light  was  brighter 
to-day  than  yesterday.  Pascale  opened  her  win- 
dow ;  the  mistral  at  last  was  still,  but  the  air  was 
fresh.  A  flock  of  linnets,  newcomers  from  the 
north,  fluttered  from  orchard  to  orchard,  a  gay 
company  full  of  small  cries  and  flashing  in  the 
golden  sun. 

It  was  such  a  holiday  as  Adolphe  Mouvand  had 
longed  for  many  a  time.  He  was  satisfied.  The 
little  party  went  out  somewhat  late  in  the  morning, 
having  waited  for  Jules,  who  came  in  late.  The 
young  man  was  out,  "with  friends,  about  some 
business,"  explained  the  widow.  He  came  at 
last,  his  felt  hat  pushed  back,  a  sprig  of  mimosa 
in  his  buttonhole,  a  red  tie,  and  an  airy  greeting 
for  all.  He  said,  apart  to  the  weaver,  who  stood 
in  the  street  blinking  in  the  brilliant  sun  with  the 
look  of  an  old  dazzled,  bearded  owl : 

"I  can't  say  I  am  sorry  to  have  kept  you  wait- 
ing, old  man.  I  did  a  jolly  bit  of  smuggling 
business  last  night." 

" Smuggling?"  said  Mouvand  quietly.  "That 
is  what  I  never  did,  my  boy." 

"Oh,  but  here ,"  replied  Prayou;  and  his 

sinuous  lips  parted  in  a  smile  that  was  silent, 
quick,  and  contemptuous.  Then,  perceiving  that 


72  THE  NUN 

the  old  fellow  was  waiting  for  some  explana- 
tion  

"In  this  town,"  he  said,  "a,  man  who  is  not 
afraid,  who  looks  out  for  himself  and  has  friends, 
may  make  a  fortune  with  alcohol.  Well,  Made- 
moiselle, let  us  go  on." 

They  saw  everything  that  the  usual  excursionist 
sees,  and  in  the  self-same  way,  without  a  pause, 
without  any  means  of  associating  a  single  historical 
or  artistic  interest  to  what  they  saw,  with  the  same 
remarks:  "Yes,  that  is  beautiful.  It's  as  good 
as  anything  in  Lyons,"  applied  to  the  imitation 
jewellery  in  the  shops,  to  the  Roman  Maison 
Carree,  to  the  Law  Courts,  to  the  Pradier  fountain, 
to  the  Roman  amphitheatre,  and  to  the  churches, 
every  one  of  which  they  entered  to  please  Pascale. 
She  had  a  manner  of  her  own  in  kneeling,  simply, 
naturally,  without  jerks,  her  reverent  face  to  the 
altar,  while  the  widow  Prayou  made  twists  and 
turns  as  she  genuflected,  and  Jules  remained 
standing.  Then  she  listened  to  his  wordy  ex- 
planations. He  was  entirely  ignorant,  but  he 
talked  better  than  any  man  of  Lyons.  He  was 
full  of  attentions,  and  the  party  had  to  enter  a 
shop  of  "souvenirs"  to  choose  something  for 
Pascale — a  silver  cross,  picture  postcards,  an 
album,  a  pair  of  scissors.  "In  a  few  days,"  re- 
monstrated Pascale,  in  a  low  voice — she  did  not 
wish  to  remind  her  father  of  the  approaching  date 
of  their  parting — "I  shall  not  be  able  to  keep  any- 
thing except  perhaps  the  scissors.  The  silver 
cross  is  too  pretty  for  me." 

"Take  it  all  the  same,"  said  Jules  Prayou. 


THE  NUN  73 

"When  I  make  money  I  don't  often  spend  it  on 
crosses." 

They  were  all  dusty,  tired,  and  in  good  spirits. 
When  they  had  dined — late  in  the  afternoon,  in  a 
little  restaurant  outside  the  town  on  the  first 
slope  of  the  Rhone  hills,  where  Jules  had  an  open 
account — they  walked  back  to  Montauri  by  stony 
roads  between  walls  that  were  overtopped  now  and 
again  by  almond  trees,  pines,  or  cypresses,  or  even, 
despite  the  wintry  month,  by  climbing  roses  still 
in  flower.  Pascale,  the  least  weary  of  the  four, 
cried:  " Never  before  have  I  breathed  so  easily. 
It  is  four  o'clock,"  she  added,  "and  as  bright  as 
Lyons  at  noon."  At  times  they  went  hi  through 
open  doorways  or  breaches  in  the  walls  to  the 
terraced  enclosures  of  the  cultivated  lands — little 
properties  of  thirty  olive  trees,  a  couple  of  mul- 
berry trees,  a  thirsty  almond  tree,  and  in  the  midst 
the  little  country  house  peculiar  to  Nimes — the 
mazet — whither  it  is  the  family  custom  to  go  out 
on  Sundays  and  rest  in  country  shade.  "We  shall 
have  one  of  our  own  in  time,"  said  the  widow; 
"and  a  better  one  than  those.  A  lot  of  stones,  a 
shed,  a  few  olive  trees,  and  a  little  soil  slipping 
away — they  call  that  a  mazet,  but  we  shall  do 
better  with  ours." 

At  the  top  of  the  hill  of  Montauri  they  met,  at 
the  old  gateway  of  a  villa,  the  caretaker  and  his 
wife,  who  knew  the  Prayous,  and  now  invited 
them  to  come  through  the  garden  and  rest  them- 
selves. The  owners  being  away,  and  their  con- 
sent by  proxy  being  assumed,  the  party  walked 
through  an  avenue,  and  Pascale  and  Jules  sat 


74  THE  NUN 

together  on  the  low  wall  that  supported  the  garden 
terrace,  rising  from  an  olive  orchard.  Beyond, 
the  ground  rose  again,  and  further  still,  between 
the  beautiful  lines  of  the  descending  hills,  lay  the 
whole  city  of  Nimes. 

The  town,  which  from  this  height  looked  flat, 
was  tenderly  coloured,  rosy,  almost  violet,  among 
its  long  and  gentle  hills,  which  clothed  half  of  the 
horizon  as  with  the  folds  of  soft  draperies.  And 
the  rose  of  the  town  and  the  green  of  the  heights 
were  tints  so  tender  in  the  last  great  light  of  the 
sun  that  Pascale,  unaccustomed  to  clear  distances, 
felt  their  loveliness,  and  thought,  "Here  is  no 
winter." 

The  colour  of  the  plain  too  was  full  of  harmonies 
of  violet-grey — ploughed  land,  leafless  woods,  a 
region  unfolding  towards  the  south,  low  slopes 
that  were  mirrors  for  the  sun  and  reflected  his 
light  into  the  hollows  of  the  Rhone;  and,  further 
still,  the  sparkle  of  the  wraters  of  Aigues  Mortes. 

All  these  caresses  of  the  light  were  of  greater 
power  and  of  sweeter  influence  because  of  the  fore- 
ground foliage,  through  which  they  came  like  the 
glances  of  appealing  eyes  veiled  by  their  lashes. 
Pascale,  seated  sideways  on  a  wall,  was  receiving 
into  her  heart,  at  this  time  of  keen  emotion,  many 
thoughts  that  had  wandered  in  her  world,  but  had 
not  yet  harboured  within  her.  Jules  Prayou,  his 
feet  swinging  over  the  little  orchard  below,  was 
not  studying  the  landscape;  he  was  marking  the 
traces  of  the  peasant's  labour  or  the  marauder's 
trespass  among  the  olives.  Adolphe  Mouvand 
and  the  widow,  not  much  moved  by  the  beauty 


THE  NUN  75 

of  the  day,  talked  with  the  gardener  about  the 
harvest.  Pascale,  fully  understanding  the  invi- 
tation to  life  and  to  joy  implied  in  that  view  of  the 
sunny  city,  said  within  her  heart:  "I  give  them 
all  up,  those  delights,  the  thought  of  which  dis- 
turbs me,  those  delights  I  have  not  known  and 
shall  never  know.  I  am  escaping  them.  I  am 
taking  refuge  in  the  peace  that  is  unlike  them,  that 
is  better  than  they  are,  as  I  know  at  times  when 
my  soul  is  perfectly  pure.  I  give  them  up — all 
the  ambitions  and  all  the  enjoyments  of  which 
those  streets  are  full,  and  all  happiness  that  is  not 
mingled  with  self-sacrifice.  How  many  mothers 
of  children  are  in  those  houses ;  and  their  children 
love  them,  and  they  are  expecting  their  father 
home,  or  he  has  just  come  in,  and  they  hold  up  the 
baby  for  a  kiss.  My  children  will  not  love  me 
quite  so  much.  But  I  shall  have  a  great,  great 
many,  and  God  will  make  up  for  the  fondness  I 
shall  miss."  Her  fresh  lips  moved  with  prayer. 
Jules  Prayou  ceased  to  stare  about  him;  he 
looked,  and  looked  ardently,  at  the  charming 
face  turned  towards  the  city,  and  full  of  dreams 
in  the  light.  He  looked  at  the  delicate  head 
with  its  rays  of  fair  hair  against  a  background  of 
laurels,  at  the  neck,  somewhat  long  and  very 
white;  at  the  drooping  shoulders,  over  which 
his  mother  had  thrown  a  little  shawl  of  white 
wool,  lifted  regularly  by  each  breath  of  the  pure 
air.  He  would  much  have  liked  to  laugh  with  the 
girl  as  he  did  with  others,  to  have  her  attention, 
to  pay  her  court;  but  he  guessed  that  Pascale 
was  at  that  moment  very  far  from  him  in  spirit, 


76  THE  NUN 

and  he  was  seized  with  angry  jealousy  of  the 
thing  that  absorbed  her. 

"I  say,  cousin,"  he  said,  raising  his  voice, 
"what  a  funny  idea  that  is  of  yours — going  into 
a  convent." 

"Why  funny?"  she  said,  still  holding  her  face 
to  the  light.  "To  me  it  is  exceedingly  serious." 

"Well,  but  for  a  pretty  girl  like  you!" 

"Oh!"  she  cried,  and  her  laughter  opened  like 
a  flower.  "You  think  all  nuns  are  plain,  do  you? 
I  assure  you  some  of  them  are  lovely.  You  don't 
know  much  about  such  things,  I  suspect,  cousin." 

"Upon  my  word,  one  would  think  you  were 
afraid  of  men." 

She  turned  to  him,  and  felt  at  last  the  dubious 
fire  of  the  look  that  played  upon  her.  She  rose  to 
her  feet. 

"I  am  not  bound  to  tell  you  why  I  am  to  be  a 
nun.  My  reasons  are  private,  and  no  one's 
business  but  my  own." 

For  the  second  time  she  had  occasion  to  note 
the  violence  of  what  is  called  the  southern  tem- 
perament, but  is  only  human  instinct  uncontrolled 
and  unashamed.  Jules  Prayou  flung  her  an  in- 
sult, and  leapt  from  the  wall  into  the  olive-ground 
at  his  feet.  For  some  few  minutes  she  watched 
him  amongst  the  trees,  striding  excitedly,  his 
hands  in  his  pockets,  turning  on  her  now  and 
again  a  face  pallid  with  anger. 

Pascale  called  him,  thinking  this  was  some  kind 
of  joke: 

"Cousin!    Comeback!" 

"Why,    why,    where's   he    going?"    cried    his 


THE  NUN  77 

mother,  running  up.  "You've  been  vexing  him? 
What  about?" 

"I  vexing  him?  I  told  him  that  my  reasons 
for  going  into  the  convent  were  my  business — 
that  was  all." 

The  woman  shook  her  head;  and  as  the  slight 
and  active  figure  of  her  son  passed  out  of  sight 
beyond  a  further  wall,  over  which  he  vaulted  with 
little  respect  for  the  owner  of  the  garden  or  for 
the  gardener,  she  said  very  gravely: 

"Anyway,  when  he  comes  back,  please  be 
careful;  don't  annoy  him  again,  be  nice  to  him." 

"If  I  am  not  to  scold  him,  then  will  you?" 

"You  don't  know  him.    He  might " 

She  did  not  finish  her  sentence,  but  suddenly 
added : 

"He  is  terrible." 

The  three  walked  down  the  road  of  Saint 
Cesaire,  hoping  to  meet  Jules  Prayou,  who  had 
taken  that  direction  across  the  orchards.  But 
they  could  not  see  him.  After  half  an  hour's 
silence,  and  as  they  drew  near  the  slaughter- 
house buildings  in  the  gathering  twilight,  Adolphe 
Mouvand  said,  twisting  his  beard,  and  turning  to 
the  widow: 

"You  are  not  training  that  boy  of  yours.  He 
is  the  master.  Take  care!" 

The  woman  only  laughed. 

It  was  almost  dark  when  they  entered  the 
cottage  at  Montauri.  It  was  less  cold  than  on 
the  mistral  evening,  but  Madame  Prayou  lighted 
a  fire  in  her  room  and  fed  it  during  the  evening 
with  twigs  of  oak  to  which  clung  still  their  with- 


78  THE  NUN 

ered  leaves,  and  of  which  she  had  a  store  under 
a  shed.  As  she  cherished  illusory  ideas  in  regard 
to  the  wealth  of  her  guests,  and  as  the  absence 
of  her  son  freed  her  from  her  habitual  uneasiness 
under  his  watchful  eyes,  she  grew  expansive. 
She  talked  over  the  family  history  with  Adolphe 
Mouvand,  who  liked  this  gossip  of  the  past;  she 
became  affectionate  to  Pascale,  and  even  made 
some  demonstration  of  a  tendency  to  piety.  She 
again  and  again  recommended  her  " intentions" 
to  the  prayer  of  the  future  novice.  She  also  asked 
her  to  boil  the  water  for  the  "grog."  And  leaning 
back  idly  in  her  chair  she  sighed,  "It  is  nice  to 
have  a  little  help."  Pascale,  believing  that  hi  her 
she  had  found  something  of  that  maternal  ten- 
derness of  which  she  had  so  early  been  deprived, 
allowed  herself  to  be  embraced  and  kissed,  and 
was  moved,  and  proffered  her  own  young,  in- 
genuous, and  eager  affection  to  this  woman  who 
called  her  "my  child,"  and  used,  as  she  spoke  the 
words,  a  warmth  of  voice,  a  naturally  dramatic 
mimicry  hi  which  her  whole  southern  body  took 
part  in  confederacy  with  her  words,  filling  with 
sweet  gratitude  this  daughter  of  the  more  north- 
ern Lyons.  The  last  hours  spent  thus  in  home 
life — for  Adolphe  Mouvand  could  not  further  pro- 
long his  holiday — made  a  stronger  impression  on 
Pascale's  mind,  and  even  on  her  father's,  than 
the  pleasant  journey  had  done.  "A  good  woman, 
that,"  said  the  weaver  at  night,  as  he  crossed  to 
his  own  bedroom.  "She  talks  too  fast  for  me; 
she  doesn't  bring  up  her  boy  properly;  but  she's 
a  kind  soul,  this  cousin  of  ours." 


THE  NUN  79 

On  the  following  morning,  half  an  hour  before 
their  departure,  Jules  Prayou  arrived,  eager, 
attentive,  smiling  as  at  their  first  meeting.  He 
begged  Pascale,  in  a  tone  of  jest,  to  forget  and 
forgive  his  hastiness  of  the  previous  evening;  he 
asked  permission  to  kiss  her;  he  volunteered  to 
carry  the  valise  to  the  station ;  he  promised,  with 
a  gesture  towards  the  north,  to  visit  his  cousin 
some  day,  wherever  her  religious  superiors  might 
place  her;  and  when  the  train  drew  away,  and 
she  saw  these  two  new-found  relatives,  who  mul- 
tiplied their  au  revoirs,  waving  their  hands — hands 
full  of  language — Pascale  said  to  her  father: 

"I  am  glad  we  came." 

He  was  so  too;  but  what  had  made  him  glad 
was  that  during  those  two  days  he  had  not  heard 
his  own  heart  rehearsing  constantly  the  hour,  the 
day,  the  moment. 

The  last  ten  days  had  come.  By  tacit  consent 
Pascale  and  her  father  spoke  no  more  of  their  im- 
minent separation.  He  had  promised  himself  to 
be  brave  "so  as  to  gain  merit,"  as  he  said  in  his 
simple  theology.  She  took  pains  to  be  sweet  to 
him  so  as  to  thank  him.  And  she  succeeded ;  she 
made  herself  doubly  dear.  For  the  weaver  and 
for  his  daughter  those  days  were  full  of  the  joy 
of  companionship,  a  joy  to  which  both  gave  utter- 
ance, to  which  they  recurred,  willing  to  make  it 
stronger  since  it  was  to  be  short,  and  as  the  se- 
cret underpain  of  separation  grew  more  instant. 
When  father  and  daughter  looked  at  one  another 
each  perceived  the  ineffaceable  date  in  the  other's 
eyes,  and  smiled  "I.  do  not  see  it."  Pascale  was 


80  THE  NUN 

gay  for  his  sake,  and  made  him  believe  her.  She 
wished  to  leave  him  the  memory  of  a  Pascale  who 
had  been  happy  to  the  end.  One  morning  she  had 
laid  out  on  the  top  of  her  chest  of  drawers  the 
two  summer  dresses  she  possessed,  the  one  very 
poor  and  much  worn,  a  woollen  dress  in  two 
shades  of  grey,  the  other  a  cotton  dress,  almost 
elegant,  white  with  violet  flowers,  and  ruffled  at 
the  wrists  and  throat.  Had  she  wished  to  look 
at  them  again,  to  touch  them,  to  give  them 
away?  Her  father  who,  since  the  visit  to  Nimes, 
was  wont  often  to  leave  his  loom  for  a  little  chat 
in  her  room  or  in  the  kitchen,  came  upon  Pascale 
as  she  was  folding  the  sleeves,  and  doubling  them 
across  the  bodices,  and  gathering  up  the  folds  of 
the  skirts.  He  drew  back  for  an  instant.  Pascale 
saw,  and  said  quickly,  "It  wants  ironing,  you  see, 
and  I'm  not  clever  at  gauffering.  I  shall  get  the 
workwoman  to  do  it."  He  calculated;  the  work- 
woman would  take  four  or  five  days;  he  pressed 
his  lips  together  under  his  moustache,  did  not 
say  why  he  had  come,  and  turned  away.  Innu- 
merable farewells,  perpetual  farewells,  dumb 
farewells!  They  filled  those  hours  for  Pascale. 
When  she  touched  anything  hi  this  little  home, 
she  said  inwardly,  "I  shall  never  touch  it  again." 
She  put  her  silver  thimble  away  in  a  drawer,  and 
said,  "I  shall  never  use  it  again."  She  took  her 
father's  arm  as  though  for  a  mere  walk  in  the 
neighbouring  districts  of  the  city,  and  looked  with 
a  passionate  interest  at  the  houses,  the  signs,  the 
little  side-alleys  towards  the  Rhone  and  the  park 
of  the  Tete  d'Or.  She  took  leave  thus  of  many 


THE  NUN  81 

and  many  who  did  not  know  it.  As  she  had  not 
announced  her  purpose,  many  dwellers  in  those 
streets  were  surprised  at  her  lingering  looks,  and 
at  her  shaking  hands  with  them  when  they  were 
but  passing  in  a  hurry,  or  as  they  stood  on  their 
door-steps.  "She  has  got  time  on  her  hands, 
that  Pascale  Mouvand,"  they  said.  No,  she  was 
detaining  something  of  the  youth  with  which  she 
must  finally  part.  She  could  not  say  to  them, 
"You  will  not  see  me  again.  You  stout  milk- 
woman,  who  used  to  think  me  a  pretty  child,  and 
told  me  so  by  filling  my  jug  a  little  fuller  than  the 
rest ;  bustling,  married  neighbours,  who  compared 
your  own  girlhood  with  mine ;  poor  invalid  behind 
that  window,  who  always  watched  me  pass  until 
the  glass  was  dun  with  your  breath;  fountain, 
where  the  little  boys  out  of  school  make  the  water 
squirt;  people  out  walking  on  Sunday,  who  don't 
know  that  next  Sunday  there  will  be  a  girl  the 
less;  hearers  of  daily  early  Mass,  who  will  never 
have  me  near  you  again,  farewell  to  all,  good-bye! 
Good-bye  to  the  eyes,  the  voices,  the  hearts,  the 
words,  the  cries,  my  pleasures,  my  pains,  my 
trouble  and  my  weakness.  It  is  hard  to  leave 
you  all!" 

She  renewed  her  strength  in  the  single-hearted 
meditation  wherein  her  resolution  had  first  been 
formed,  and  she  renewed  it  also  in  the  courage 
of  her  father.  For  she  knew  that  she  could  not 
walk  without  an  example,  a  rail  to  guide  her 
hand.  The  weaver  had  made  of  the  matter  as 
it  were  a  point  of  honour  between  himself  and 
his  God.  "We  won't  give  way,"  he  said,  "I 


82  THE  NUN 

have  principles;  have  I  or  have  I  not?  Well, 
I  don't  intend  to  flinch  because  I  have  to  suffer 
for  my  principles.  Nor  will  I  let  my  mates  who 
don't  think  as  I  do  say  that  I  am  a  bigot  just  as 
long  as  it  costs  me  no  trouble.  They  shall  see 
whether  or  not  I  am  one  of  the  men  of  Saint 
Irenee,  from  father  to  son  Christians  and  first 
class  silk-weavers.  And  then — if  there  were 
nothing  else — I  owe  it  to  God  for  my  sins.  I  gave 
Him  back  my  Pascale  as  I  would  my  blood,  drop 
by  drop." 

And  not  for  a  moment  had  he  flinched;  he 
had  turned  to  all,  and  especially  to  his  daughter, 
that  customary  silent  front  which  from  time  to 
time  was  changed  by  an  access  of  facile  good 
humour.  If  he  wept  within,  there  was  nothing 
to  show  it.  Pascale  sometimes  thought,  "His 
nature  is  happier  than  mine."  At  any  rate  it 
was  more  robust. 

During  the  two  last  days  they  walked  out 
often,  her  hand  on  his  arm,  and  they  visited 
some  of  their  neighbours.  The  weather  had 
grown  mild ;  three  hours  of  moist,  warm  sunshine 
between  the  morning  mist  and  the  evening  fog. 
They  gave  no  reason  for  those  ceremonial  visits, 
and  those  on  whom  they  called  were  somewhat 
surprised;  but  why  speak  yet?  That  surprise 
would  not  be  for  long. 

On  the  evening  before  Pascale 's  going,  Adolphe 
Mouvand  and  his  daughter  made  their  prayer 
together.  Pascale  led,  and  her  father  made  the 
responses;  and  the  man's  voice  was  unsteady 
because  he  had  heard  the  child's,  the  voice  that 


THE  NUN  83 

was  to  sound  no  more  in  his  house.  Their  even- 
ing kiss  was  long,  their  embrace  was  close. 

The  morning  rose  with  an  almost  pure  sky,  the 
Christmas  morning.  Neither  had  courage  enough 
for  a  first  greeting.  When  he  was  ready,  Aholphe 
Mouvand  opened  the  door  on  the  staircase  and 
called,  "Pascale."  She  came,  carrying  in  her 
hand  a  bag  of  brown  cloth  in  which  she  had  folded 
six  chemises  and  nightgowns  and  four  pairs  of 
black  stockings,  all  the  outfit  and  all  the  dowry 
wherewith  she  was  to  enter  St.  Hildegarde's. 
When  her  father  appeared,  he  made  haste  to  go 
down,  for  grief  had  caught  his  throat,  and  he  could 
not  trust  himself  to  stand  on  the  threshold.  Pas- 
cale  went  down  a  step,  pale  and  erect,  but  sudden- 
ly, as  though  she  had  forgotten  something,  she 
put  her  bag  down  and  fled  back  into  her  room. 
She  had,  however,  forgotten  nothing.  She  ran 
into  her  little  room,  closed  the  door  behind  her, 
looked  one  last  time  round  the  four  bare  and  faded 
walls,  and  one  by  one  tenderly  kissed  them.  Then 
she  went  out  quickly,  having  said  farewell  to  all 
her  past. 

Adolphe  Mouvand  was  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs. 
He  did  not  turn  when  he  heard  behind  him  a 
woman's  stifled  weeping.  Together,  looking  before 
them,  they  set  forth.  Now  and  then  the  weaver 
passed  his  hand  over  his  beard  fringed  with  frost. 
The  neighbours  hardly  noted  how  strangely  grave 
looked  "those  Mouvands,"  or  the  small  care  they 
took  of  their  footing  on  the  hill  on  that  frosty 
morning.  Soon  they  were  two  without  a  name, 
two  without  a  history,  in  the  great  city  then 


84  THE  NUN 

awaking.  They  spoke  few  words,  and  those  such 
as  express  none  of  the  tenderness  they  imply. 

1 '  Not  cold,  are  you?  "  "Take  care  of  the  gutter 
— it's  frozen ! "  And  once  the  weaver  said, ' '  We'll 
take  this  way,  it's  rather  longer  round,"  and  his 
face  was  twisted  with  a  grimace  of  pain  con-- 
trolled. They  might  not  much  delay,  for  Pascale 
had  promised  to  be,  before  eight  o'clock,  in  the 
parlour  of  a  school  the  Sisters  kept  at  La  Guillo- 
tiere.  Twice  again  did  Mouvand  speak.  As 
they  entered  that  quarter  of  the  town  he  stopped 
Pascale  on  the  quay  by  the  Rhone,  and  said  to 
her  in  his  gruff  voice,  but  in  the  tone  of  a  child, 
"Pascale,  will  you  come  back  home  again?" 

She,  with  her  eyes  before  her,  whispered  "No, 
no,"  and  went  on. 

Her  father  followed  her.  When  he  saw  before 
him  the  Place  de  1'Abondance,  open  and  empty 
and  so  quickly  to  be  crossed,  he  said  again,  Like 
a  beggar  losing  hope  for  alms,  "Will  you  come 
back  home,  Pascale?"  She  did  not  answer,  per- 
haps she  did  not  hear.  He  had  said  to  her  the 
night  before,  "I  shall  not  see  the  Superior.  I 
shall  take  you  just  to  the  door  as  I  used  to  do 
when  you  were  a  child." 

The  school  had  a  triangular  facade  to  the  street, 
and  bore  a  cross.  Pascale  rang  quickly,  so  as  to 
make  her  act  final.  Then,  hearing  the  tinkle  of 
the  little  worn  bell  as  she  stood  on  the  step  on  the 
level  of  her  father  standing  on  the  pavement,  she 
turned  to  him,  and  wept  bitterly  on  his  neck. 

"I  do  love  you,  father,"  she  said.  "I  shall 
love  you  as  long  as  I  live."  She  drew  away,  she 


THE  NUN  85 

looked  at  him  with  her  ardent  eyes  that  were 
heavy  with  tears,  as  though  to  fix  the  image  of 
this  dear  one.  With  the  action  of  a  mother  she 
laid  the  large  and  hairy  head  upon  her  breast, 
and  slowly  kissed  the  brow.  The  door  was  open. 
A  young  portress  had  said  gaily,  "Why,  it's  our 
new  Sister,"  and  then  had  stopped  abruptly, 
struck  silent  by  pity.  Pascale  whispered  closely, 
while  her  father,  bewildered,  closed  his  eyes. 

"I  thank  you  for  being  so  generous.  I  do  love 
you,  father.  Good-bye,  good-bye."  She  smiled 
to  the  Sister,  went  up  two  steps,  and  the  door 
shut  between  the  father  and  the  child. 

Mouvand  sat  down  on  the  step  and  wept  with- 
out control. 


Two  years  went  by  while  Pascale  made  her 
novitiate  at  the  Mother-House  of  Clermont-Fer- 
rand. The  weaver  grew  accustomed  to  the  ab- 
sence of  his  child,  at  any  rate  there  was  no  one 
in  the  district  of  the  Croix  Rousse  who  could  say 
that  he  had  not  become  used  to  it.  For  a  week 
there  was  much  talk  of  Pascale 's  vocation  and 
departure;  also  of  the  weaver's  taking  an  ap- 
prentice. But  the  apprentice  did  not  live  in  the 
house.  He  came  in  the  morning,  and  at  whatever 
hour  this  was,  he  never  failed  to  see  the  great 
shoulders  of  his  master  bent  at  the  loom.  Never 
had  Mouvand  worked  so  hard.  Never  had  he 
grown  old  so  fast ;  his  bass  voice  grew  hollow,  and 
every  wrinkle  became  a  furrow.  When  the 
neighbours  jested  with  him  about  his  little  nun, 


86  THE  NUN 

he  answered:  "As  there  are  girls  for  pleasure, 
there  have  to  be  girls  for  prayer — that's  how  I 
look  at  it." 

When  he  heard,  at  the  end  of  December,  1899, 
that  Pascale  was  to  be  sent,  as  auxiliary  teacher, 
to  the  school  in  the  Place  Saint  Pontique,  he  was 
happy;  for  she  might  never  have  returned  to 
Lyons  at  all.  He  said  to  the  apprentice,  a  beard- 
less youth  as  pale  as  a  lamp  forgotten  and  left 
alight  in  broad  day:  "I  shall  have  a  good  Sunday, 
Joannes,  I  am  going  to  see  my  girl  at  Saint 
Pontique."  And  he  thought:  "How  pretty  she 
will  be,  just  twenty,  in  her  nun's  dress."  And  he 
was  right.  In  the  little  white  parlour,  when  he 
had  kissed  her  with  all  his  heart,  he  looked  at  her. 
He  sat  in  his  chair,  and  she  in  one  opposite,  and  he 
conned  her,  feature  by  feature. 

"Your  eyes  are  still  like  flowers,  yellow,  like 
the  middle  part  of  a  daisy." 

She  laughed  as  she  used  to  do,  or  even  in  a 
fresher  and  clearer  voice,  for  teaching  had  not 
yet  worn  it. 

"But  your  hair  is  gone,  and  I  liked  it  so.  No — 
there  is  a  little  bit,  just  by  your  ear." 

"It  will  come  out  so." 

"It's  golden.  All  the  gold  we  had  at  home. 
You  ought  to  have  left  me  a  lock.  But  you  are 
rosier,  your  cheeks  and  your  mouth  too." 

"Dad,  we  don't  talk  of  things  of  that  kind." 

"It's  only  your  father,  Pascale,  and  it  has  been 
two  years." 

Ah,  the  sweet  first  five  minutes!  After  that 
they  tried  to  talk  easily.  She  spoke  to  him  about 


THE  NUN  87 

her  companions,  to  him  strangers ;  about  Clermont- 
Ferrand,  where  he  had  never  been;  about  the 
method  and  course  of  teaching  in  the  school,  for 
which  he  cared  nothing.  She  good-naturedly 
asked  him  questions  about  the  old  district,  about 
business.  By  this  time  many  things  had  grown 
dim  in  the  mind  of  Pascale:  many  details  were 
quite  effaced,  many  figures  had  vanished;  the 
little  novelties  about  the  house  or  the  street — she 
had  not  seen  them.  Mouvand  was  well  aware  that 
though  she  made  some  effort  to  imagine  certain 
new  streets  that  he  tried  to  describe,  and  the  new 
loom  and  the  pattern  of  the  new  paper  he  had  put 
up  "to  make  the  room  look  warmer,"  she  hardly 
succeeded,  and,  besides  that,  it  was  her  kindness 
that  was  concerned,  and  not  her  life.  He  under- 
stood that  they  had  no  share  together  in  the 
house,  or  the  street,  or  the  work;  that  the  one 
thing  belonging  to  them  both  was  past,  and  that 
they  would  never  have  another  holiday  together 
except  on  the  yonder  side  of  the  grave.  Mouvand 
felt  that  his  sacrifice  was  not  yet  complete.  He 
asked : 

"Are  you  happy,  Pascale?" 

"Quite  happy." 

"As  you  used  to  be?" 

She  was  loth  to  answer,  "Much  happier";  she 
nodded.  Yes,  he  knew  she  was  happy,  he  hardly 
understood  how — without  him,  far  from  him— 
but  the  fact  was  there.  He  arose,  before  the 
allotted  hour  of  recreation  was  over.  He  touched 
caressingly  with  his  finger  the  white  frontlet  that 
covered  the  fair  hair,  and  the  black  veil,  and  the 


88  THE  NUN 

hands  of  his  child.  He  said,  "I  shall  come 
again.  It's  always  on  Sunday,  isn't  it,  that  I 
can  see  you?" 

But  several  months  went  by  before  he  came 
again.  His  friends,  the  bowl-players,  noticed 
that  he  had  less  power  hi  throwing  and  that  his 
bowl  was  often  short.  The  wine  that  followed 
the  game  hardly  cheered  him  whom  it  used  to 
make  joyful.  He  had  not  given  up  his  visits  to 
Pascale,  but  they  were  few  and  brief.  His 
robust  faith  had  grown  yet  stronger  in  solitude; 
he  was  not  melancholy,  but  he  no  longer  loved 
life.  He  said  hi  his  prayers:  "I  am  old,  I  am 
common,  I  am  quite  alone  and  forsaken.  It  is 
not  possible  for  anyone  to  love  me  again,  except 
God  only.  God  only!  Glory!  Alleluia!  My 
soul  is  half  saved."  Since  his  child  had  taken  the 
veil  he  always  lifted  his  hat  to  nuns  in  the  street, 
but  he  avoided  speaking  to  them,  because  of  the 
little  girl  of  whom  they  too  much  reminded  him. 
He  had  grown  very  emotional.  Probably  he  had 
been  so  all  his  life,  but  if  so,  it  was  within,  after 
the  manner  of  the  strong,  out  of  sight  of  the 
effeminate  and  the  curious.  Now  that  he  was 
a  weaker  man,  and  unable  to  work  more  than 
eight  hours  a  day,  his  nerves  had  "got,"  as  he 
said,  "the  upper  hand,"  and  he  felt  himself  to  be 
subject  to  sensibilities,  which  no  one  had  before 
suspected  to  be  lurking  in  him.  More  regularly 
than  ever  before  he  attended  the  meetings  of  the 
Hospitallers,  and  on  Sundays,  with  his  brothers 
of  that  Order,  he  went  his  round  of  the  wards  of 
fever-beds  to  which  he  was  appointed.  He  visited 


THE  NUN  89 

his  patients,  combed  and  cut  their  hair,  and 
shaved  them,  lifted  them,  talked  with  them,  meet- 
big,  in  the  course  of  this  ministration,  men  of  his 
mind  and  of  his  spirit.  Formerly,  he  had  visited 
the  sick  and  tended  them  in  their  own  homes  as 
well,  but  this  he  could  do  no  longer. 

One  morning  towards  the  end  of  the  summer, 
as  he  was  standing  hi  his  white-pouched  apron, 
deftly  shaving  the  cheeks  of  a  patient,  one  of 
the  Hospital  nursing  Sisters  passed  the  foot  of  the 
bed  and  said  to  him:  " Monsieur  Mouvand,  your 
chief  wants  you  in  the  next  room." 

She  went  on,  with  her  light  and  noiseless  foot. 
Her  white  linen — cap,  frontlet,  gorget  and  collar — 
vanished  beyond  a  door  and  took  with  it  a  flash 
of  white  light. 

The  weaver  had  laid  his  left  hand,  holding  the 
shaving  cloth,  upon  the  sick  man's  bed;  his 
other  hand  held  the  razor;  he  remained  leaning 
aside,  his  head  forward  like  a  dog  pointing.  It 
was  only  after  a  full  minute  that  he  became 
again  conscious  of  what  he  was  about  to  do,  and 
recovered  himself.  Then  he  made  haste  to 
"finish  his  customer,"  put  his  shaving  things  into 
his  pouch  again,  and  went  out  into  the  hall, 
where  the  "conductor"  of  his  division  of  Hos- 
pitallers waited  to  ask  a  question.  When  he  had 
replied,  he  began  to  take  off  the  apron  of  his 
amateur  calling. 

"You  look  much  worse  than  a  great  many  of 
our  patients,  Mouvand.  You  had  better  take  a 
little  turn  outside,  it  would  pull  you  together," 
said  his  chief. 


90  THE  NUN 

The  weaver's  head  shook  as  it  often  did  before 
he  spoke.  Then  he  said : 

"I  shall  not  come  again." 

"Not  till  next  time!" 

"No,  never." 

"You  feel  worn  out?" 

"Yes,  I  feel  about  done.  I'm  out  of  it.  Please 
tell  the  other  fellows  I'm  not  fit  for  work.  But 
there's  another  reason — I  can't  bear  to  see  the 
Sister — the  one  who  went  through  just  now. 
She  is  too  much  like  my  daughter  Pascale.  Good- 
bye." 

Nor  did  he  enter  the  hospital  again.  Nor  was 
he  seen  again  on  Sundays  except  at  church,  and 
on  the  Boulevard  of  the  Croix  Rousse  at  bowls. 
His  friends  sometimes  threw  the  little  bowl  to  a 
shorter  distance,  or,  when  his  back  was  turned, 
pushed  his  own  nearer,  so  that  he  might  have  the 
pleasure  of  winning. 

In  the  spring  of  1902  he  was  absorbed  in  an 
important  piece  of  work — the  weaving  of  a  mag- 
nificent white  silk,  for  the  manufacture  of  which 
he  had  been  chosen  among  several  hundred  work- 
men, by  the  head  of  the  famous  Lyons  house  of 
Talier-Decapy.  He  worked  at  this  with  extreme 
care,  washing  his  hands  ten  times  a  day.  It  was 
a  thick  and  supple  silk,  white  as  snow,  sprinkled 
with  little  wreaths  of  silver  foliage.  He  had  both 
pleasure  and  pride  in  weaving  this  robe  of  light. 
On  the  16th  of  May,  which  is  the  eve  of  St.  Pascal, 
he  came  home  from  a  visit  to  his  child,  and  had 
two  delights  hidden  in  his  heart:  he  had  found 
Pascale  looking  well,  and  she  had  said  to  him, 


THE  NUN  91 

"I  am  coming  round  to  see  you,  I  am  coming  to 
beg.  The  house  at  Clermont-Ferrand  is  full  of 
evicted  Sisters,  and  cannot  give  us  any  help.  So 
we  want  some  hundreds  of  francs  for  our  own 
bread  until  the  end  of  the  year." 

"Some  hundreds  of  francs,  forsooth!  I  can 
only  give  you  a  little — still,  come  all  the  same." 

What  a  dream  to  cherish!  Pascale  again  at 
the  Croix  Rousse!  Pascale  going  up  the  Grande 
Cote,  Pascale  in  the  street  below  with  her  blue 
gown  and  her  veil!  Pascale's  voice  in  the  room 
from  which  it  had  so  long  kept  away  old  age! 
Pascale's  eyes  reflecting  the  things  of  the  house 
and  her  father's  image,  as  when  she  used  to  come 
behind  him  at  his  loom,  and  say,  "Well,  no 
kissing  this  morning,  Dad,  I  suppose?" 

The  second  delight,  which  did  but  attend  the 
first,  was  in  the  weaver's  heart  as  he  walked  home 
along  the  Saone  in  the  sweet  weather,  his  hands 
in  his  pockets,  and  felt  the  summer  wind,  fresh 
only  when  it  is  high.  And  on  the  quay  was  a  little 
greenery,  enough  to  give  a  factory  workman  a 
sense  of  the  country,  and  he  enjoyed  and  loved 
the  foliage  and  the  breeze. 

Mouvand  walked  quickly  that  day.  He  was 
heated  when  he  sat  down  before  his  loom  and 
lifted  the  paper  covering  his  silk.  With  more 
spirit  than  usual  his  foot  pressed  the  pedal,  his 
left  hand  pushed  the  leaf,  and  his  right  hand  threw 
the  shuttle.  He  worked  for  more  than  an  hour, 
and  the  light  was  fine  in  the  workshop.  The 
apprentice  had  stopped  to  rest  three  times. 
Mouvand,  excited  by  the  beauty  of  the  material 


92  THE  NUN 

in  his  hands  and  the  splendour  of  the  tissue  in 
his  loom,  sat  intent  with  his  shoulders  bowed 
and  his  rough  head  covered  by  the  cap  with 
ears  which  he  usually  wore  at  work.  The  sound 
of  the  bell  did  not  stop  him,  nor  did  the  entrance 
of  an  employe  of  the  factory,  who  was  taking 
an  Italian  client  round  the  works.  This  visitor, 
with  a  thin  southern  face  and  pointed  beard,  drew 
near  the  weaver,  looked  at  him  closely  for  a 
moment,  studied  his  work,  and  touching  his 
shoulder,  said: 

"Excellent!" 

Mouvand  stopped  the  shuttle  at  the  point 
where  the  stretched  threads  of  the  "chain"  made, 
as  it  were,  long  rays  from  the  woven  light  of 
the  lustrous  silk.  He  even  lifted  a  finger  to 
his  cap. 

"I  have  brought  to  your  workshop,  Monsieur 
Mouvand,"  said  the  employe,  "the  greatest  of 
all  exporters  of  Italian  silk.  Now,  sir,  you  can 
judge  of  the  good  work  of  our  Lyons  weavers; 
and  here  is  one  of  the  best." 

"And  the  last,"  said  Mouvand  in  his  gruff 
voice.  "No  cheap  silk,  no  ribbon  in  this  work- 
shop!" 

The  Italian  was  full  of  genuine  admiration. 
He  touched  the  silk  and  smiled  at  it;  he  would 
have  liked  to  speak  to  it. 

"You  are  an  artist,"  he  said,  "and  jou  are 
making  a  masterpiece.  Is  it  for  a  ball-dress?" 

The  old  weaver,  well  pleased  to  be  so  praised 
in  the  presence  of  Joannes,  his  apprentice,  but 
still  better  pleased  at  an  acknowledgment  of  his 


THE  NUN  93 

merit  deserved  by  so  many  years  of  the  past,  lifted 
his  cap  as  he  proclaimed: 

"Court-dress  for  the  Coronation  of  the  King  of 
England." 

The  loud  words  resounded  down  the  faded 
walls  and  windows,  embrowned  with  winter 
smoke.  It  was  the  voice  of  the  pride  of  ancestors, 
creators  of  the  Lyons  industry;  it  was  the  voice 
of  all  the  emotion  of  a  secluded  and  laborious 
life,  unenvious  of  the  riches  it  produced. 

When  the  two  visitors  were  gone,  Mouvand,  in 
the  same  high  tone,  addressed  his  apprentice  who, 
having  closed  the  door,  was  taking,  in  good 
spirits,  his  seat  again. 

"Take  notice,  Joannes.  You  are  in  the  work- 
shop of  an  artist.  An  artist;  and  I  think  I  was 
right,  mind  you,  when  I  said  the  last  one!" 

He  worked  on  till  night,  so  as  to  finish  the  piece 
if  possible.  The  visit  had  greatly  moved  him, 
and  this  was  the  third  joy  of  the  day. 

On  the  following  morning,  at  seven,  when 
Joannes  entered  the  workshop,  he  found  his 
master  seated  at  the  loom,  with  his  arms  folded 
on  the  silk,  which  was  unfinished  by  about  a  quar- 
ter of  a  yard.  Adolphe  Mouvand  was  dead. 


Pascale's  grief  over  this  death  did  much  to 
shake  her  health,  long  tried  by  overwork  and 
by  the  lack  of  air  and  exercise.  Her  companions 
abounded  in  attentions,  services,  tender  words, 
reverent  and  considerate  silence.  They  were  all 
quick  at  guessing,  all  —  whether  daughters  of  the 


94  THE  NUN 

farm,  the  workshop,  or  the  office — accustomed  to 
meditate  on  that  Passion  of  the  Master  which  is  a 
clue  to  all  other  griefs.  Pascale  found  amongst 
them  the  counsel  and  the  support  she  needed. 
She  had  her  own  battle  to  fight,  but  she  had  help 
from  her  fellows.  She  was  adored  by  the  school- 
children, who  were  quite  aware  of  her  weakness, 
and  read  in  the  tender  sweep  of  her  eyelashes  when 
she  answered  their  "  Good  morning,"  in  the  caress- 
ing grasp  of  her  hand,  in  the  contraction  of  her 
face  when  she  heard  of  an  accident  or  saw  a  wound, 
the  dominance  of  affection  and  of  emotion  in  the 
young  heart  of  their  teacher.  The  youngest  ran 
to  her  when  they  saw  her  in  the  courtyard  or  in  the 
passages ;  some  of  them  kissed  her  hands,  clinging 
to  her  motherly  young  skirt ;  and  during  the  long 
play-time  of  holiday  afternoons,  when  Sister 
Pascale  was  in  charge,  the  eldest  girls  stood  by  her 
and  entrusted  her  with  avowals  of  all  that  most 
nearly  touched  their  hearts — trials  in  regard  to 
dress  and  to  lovers.  She  did  not  love  to  hear  these 
things,  which  threatened  her  with  the  unquiet 
things  of  life.  She  answered,  laughing: 

"But  why  do  you  tell  me,  my  dears?  I  have 
no  experience ;  I  can't  tell  you  what  I  should  have 
done  in  your  place,  when  I  was  a  weaver's  daugh- 
ter in  the  Croix  Rousse,  for  I  don't  know."  What 
she  did  love  was  the  Office  said  at  the  end  of  the 
day  by  the  Sisters  together,  their  quiet  recreation, 
their  evening  prayer:  that  peace  which  was  still 
vibrating  with  the  life  and  feeling  of  the  day,  and 
full  of  the  consciousness  of  the  watchful  love  of 
those  who  cherished  her — a  love  in  arms  for  her 


THE  NUN  95 

against  the  temptations  or  terrors  of  the  night. 
She  loved  the  Great  Silence  of  the  Rule,  which 
lasted  until  morning  Mass  was  over.  What  a 
refreshing  and  renewing  of  the  soul  was  there! 
" Grace  comes  down  in  the  Silence,"  said  Pascale. 
She  was  not  mystical,  but  she  had  fervent  im- 
pulses of  devotion,  movements  of  a  soul  that 
knows  the  way,  and  though  it  cannot  follow  it  all 
by  continuous  flight,  can  leap  and  flutter  as  well 
as  run,  and  does  not  go  astray.  She  was  very 
punctual,  even  to  scruple,  in  the  observance  of  the 
Rule.  She  loved  the  children  she  taught — loving 
the  prettiest  best,  as  at  first — and  her  love  grew 
with  the  sense  of  duty  fulfilled.  She — beloved 
by  four  saintly  women — might  well  be  on  the  way 
to  become  a  saint  like  them. 

Therefore  the  news  that  the  community  was 
in  danger  troubled  the  very  depths  of  Pascale's 
being.  All  night  long  the  past  went  by  in  the 
young  nun's  heart;  she  travelled  again  her  old 
road,  and  she  tried  in  vain,  and  in  terror,  to  guess 
at  the  future  which  was  like  the  night,  menacing, 
pressing,  perilous.  She  rose  all  undone  with 
weariness. 


III. 


VIA  DOLOROSA. 

TUESDAY  morning  was  wearing  on.  In  the 
bright  light  the  school-children,  prisoners,  like 
wasps  in  a  hot-house,  were  beginning  to  grow 
languid.  Thirty  little  girls  of  six  to  eight  years 
old  who  were  writing  copies,  with  bent  backs, 
often  lifted  their  eyes  towards  their  mistress. 
Pascale  was  dictating: 

"A  voice  was  heard  in  Rama.  Rachael  weep- 
ing for  her  children  and  will  not  be  comforted, 
because  they  are  not." 

Poor  tender  voice,  which  the  children  heard, 
for  they  were  used  to  its  weakness. 

"Have  you  understood  the  dictation?"  she 
said.  "Read  it  over  to  yourselves.  I  will  make 
the  corrections  later.  Melie,  come  up  to  me." 

A  child  rose,  with  a  single  impetus  of  her  agile 
body,  and  drew  near  to  the  teacher's  desk.  She 
was  red-haired,  with  hard  and  quick  blue  eyes, 
wide  mouth,  sharp  teeth,  a  little  wolfish  head 
above  a  small  figure  clad  in  a  grey  woollen  frock ; 
the  eldest  pupil  in  the  class  (ten  years  old)  and  the 
most  inattentive.  She  stood  on  the  step  of  the 
mistress's  desk,  her  bold  eyes  on  the  tired  eyes 
of  Sister  Pascale.  The  mistress  faced  the  window, 
and  the  child  was  in  shadow.  Most  of  the  other 

96 


THE  NUN  97 

pupils  stopped  to  listen ;  some  few  read  over  their 
dictation. 

In  a  low  tone  Sister  Pascale  said: 

"My  little  girl,  I  am  obliged  to  speak  to  you 
again." 

Melie  made  a  grievously  disrespectful  movement 
of  the  shoulders. 

"What  for?  I  did  my  writing,  the  same  as 
the  others." 

"That  is  not  what  I  mean." 

"I  didn't  talk." 

"No,  that's  true." 

"What  is  it  then?"* 

"You  did  not  come  to  Mass  the  day  before 
yesterday." 

The  child  frowned,  looking  askance  at  her 
companions,  who  uplifted  their  noses  and  tittered 
at  seeing  that  Melie  was  in  trouble  again — Melie 
the  idle,  the  unruly  and  perverse. 

Melie  had  her  mind's  eye  fixed  afar  upon  the 
hovel  that  was  her  dwelling,  and  she  said  nothing. 

Sister  Pascale  leaned  over  her  and  said  very 
softly: 

"Do  you  wish  to  make  me  unhappy,  my 
child?" 

"That  I  don't." 

And  for  a  moment  the  little  wild  face  fronted 
the  face  of  Pascale.  The  child  was  gloomy  still, 
and  angry,  but  now  because  she  was  misunder- 
stood, and  because  this  Sister  Pascale  did  not  see 
how  much  a  turbulent  child  loved  her  and  wanted 
to  kiss  her  before  all  the  school.  The  ardent  re- 
proach of  those  childish  eyes  was  perceptible 


98  THE  NUN 

enough  to  Pascale,  whose  own  expression  relaxed 
somewhat  as  the  child  said: 

"I'm  going  to  tell  you — I  won't  tell  anybody 
else,  though — I  couldn't  come." 

"Tell  me  why." 

"Saturday  evening,  father  and  mother  both 
came  in  .all — anyhow,  I  had  to  put  them  both  to 
bed.  They  made  a  noise  all  night  long;  so  in 
the  morning  I  was  asleep." 

Pascale's  hand  lay,  as  though  giving  absolution, 
on  the  rough  head  of  Melie.  The  child  lifted  her- 
self on  tiptoe  so  as  the  better  to  meet  that  caress- 
she,  the  beaten  one,  the  worse  than  motherless, 
the  despised. 

"Go  then,"  said  Sister  Pascale — and  as  she  said 
it,  a  thought  from  the  once  familiar  life  of  the 
streets  struck  her.  "They  won't  be  drinking 
every  Saturday  I  hope,  will  they?  So  you'll 
come  next  Sunday,  and  the  other  Sundays?" 

She  stopped  abruptly.  What  was  she  saying? 
Next  Sunday?  the  other  Sundays?  Two  tears 
hung  on  the  lashes  of  her  childish  eyes. 

Melie  went  back  to  her  place,  saying:  "Sister 
Pascale  is  unhappy.  She  couldn't  smile." 

The  other  children  had  not  heard,  but  they  had 
looked.  "What  did  she  say?  Crying,  is  she? 
What  is  she  crying  for?  Had  you  told  a  lie? 
Is  she  unhappy?  Why?  Did  she  tell  you?" 
The  little  girls  were  restless  hi  the  heat.  Sister 
Pascale  was  trying  to  resume  her  school-mistress 
voice:  "We  will  now  correct  the  dictation — ." 
She  was  not  released  until  the  bell  sounded  for  the 
play-hour.  Then  she  hurried  to  find  the  Superior, 


THE  NUN  99 

so  as  to  hear  something  more  of  the  fate  of  the 
community. 

"  Sister  Pascale,"  said  Sister  Justine,  meeting 
her  in  the  corridor,  "you  will  take  charge  of  the 
luncheon  of  the  day-boarders.  What  a  Lenten 
face  you  have,  my  child !  Why,  what  a  reed  you 
are!" 

Pascale,  during  the  play-hour,  tried  to  join  in 
the  games,  as  her  duty  was;  to  be  gay  and  to 
be  obedient.  But  she  felt  within  her  a  burden 
of  tears.  Around  her  the  little  girls  ran  and 
skipped  with  a  hum  of  summer  flies.  The  young 
mistress  played,  and  was  beaten  every  time.  She 
caught  sight,  at  intervals,  of  Sister  Leonide,  in  a 
hurry  as  usual,  trotting,  laughing  with  her  tooth- 
less mouth  to  the  little  girls  who  shouted  to  her 
across  the  playground;  or  of  Sister  Edwige,  who 
was  standing  very  .still  and  very  good,  in  her  blue 
gown,  in  the  recess  of  one  of  the  windows,  correct- 
ing a  sheaf  of  exercises. 

At  half  past  four — the  " parents'  hour" — the 
four  women  met,  the  cook-Sister  being  in  the 
kitchen.  They  were  together  as  the  front  door 
closed  upon  the  last  child. 

"Well?"  said  the  anxious  voice  of  Pascale. 
"What  have  you  settled,  Mother?  What  is  to 
become  of  us?  Have  you  any  plans?  What 
have  you  done?" 

The  Superior,  who  delighted  in  these  extra- 
school  moments  of  life  "hi  community,"  bowed 
her  large  face  with  its  deep  wrinkles  in  turn  to 
the  three  in  order  of  seniority.  "Good  day," 
she  said,  "my  children.  School  is  over,  and  we 


100  THE  NUN 

can  breathe  again.  What  have  I  done?  Well, 
I  have  begun  a  letter." 

"And  then?" 

"Then  I  shall  finish  it,  and  I  shall  send  it  to 
the  post  to-night  by  Sister  Le"onide." 

"And  is  that  all?" 

"I  shall  expect  the  answer  of  our  Mother- 
General,  who  will  write  by  Thursday,  I  sup- 
pose, either  to  our  Superior,  Canon  Le  Suet,  or 
to  me." 

' '  And  in  the  meantime  ? ' ' 

"The  two  days?  We  shall  go  on  with  the  school 
and  with  our  prayers." 

"But  if ."' 

Sister  Pascale  hesitated,  but  as  she  was  privi- 
leged and  was  permitted  some  of  the  freedom  of 
speech  she  had  brought  with  her  from  the  Croix 
Rousse,  she  added: 

"If  none  of  us  say  anything,  what  then?" 

The  steady  eyes  of  Sister  Justine  rested  on  the 
face  of  the  questioner: 

"It  is  only  then,  my  little  Pascale,  that  we 
shall  have  to  depend  upon  ourselves." 

Two  days  later,  immediately  after  the  mid- 
day dinner,  which  was  cooked  in  twenty  minutes 
and  eaten  in  fifteen,  Sister  Justine  and  the  nun 
who  on  special  occasions  bore  the  part  of  her  com- 
panion— lister  Danielle — crossed  Saint  Pontique 
and  the  Perrache  railway  station,  and  on  the  south 
road  took  the  tramcar,  for  they  were  pressed  for 
time  and  had  far  to  go.  Seated  together,  they 


THE  NUN  101 

exchanged  few  words,  covered  by  the  noise  of  the 
wheels  and  of  the  rattling  windows. 

"Do  you  think  the  Canon  has  received  orders?" 

"I  should  think  so,  since  nothing  has  come  to 
me  from  Mother-General." 

"He  is  sure  to  tell  us  to  go  to  Clermont- 
Ferrand." 

"It  is  most  likely." 

"We  shall  have  to  ask  him  about  the  trains, 
as  we  never  travel  and  he  does  sometimes." 

"Oh,  Sister  Leonide  knows  all  about  it.  Fancy 
asking  Monsieur  le  Supe"rieur  such  things  as  that! 
Sister  Danielle,  what  are  you  thinking  of?" 

During  some  part  of  the  journey  they  were 
silent,  both  thinking  of  Clermont-Ferrand.  As 
the  tramcar  came  in  sight  of  the  Pont  de  Tilsit, 
Sister  Danielle  said  in  a  whisper: 

"I  shall  see  there  several  Sisters  with  whom 
I  made  my  novitiate.  I  cannot  help  being  glad 
of  that.  And  yet  how  can  they  give  shelter  in 
the  Mother-House  to  Sisters  from  every  corner 
of  France  where  schools  have  been  closed?  If 
our  Order  had  missions  in  other  countries — mis- 
sions to  the  heathen — but  as  it  is ." 

They  had  crossed  the  Saone  and  reached  their 
destination — the  square  and  respectable  house  on 
the  Quai  Fulchiron,  where  dwelt  Canon  Le  Suet. 

This  was  an  ecclesiastic  who,  clad  in  his  cas- 
sock, looked  as  broad  as  he  was  tall  and  as  thick 
as  he  was  broad.  And  yet  he  was  not  precisely 
fat,  and  had  considerable  dignity  in  his  bearing, 
some  sweetness,  and  much  ease — a  well-mitigated 
zeal.  His  life  was  above  reproach,  and  his  con- 


102  THE  NUN 

fidence  in  himself  apparently  unlimited.  All  the 
priesthood  of  Lyons  knew  him.  A  priest  of  the 
Concordat,  as  he  essentially  was,  for  him  accord 
with  the  State  was  the  one  thing  needful.  The 
price  of  peace  was  never  too  great,  peace  being 
beyond  price ;  and  even  the  honour  of  the  religion 
in  which  he  sincerely  believed  might  conceivably 
be  given  in  order  to  secure  it.  He  had  deep-set 
eyes,  thin  hair  somewhat  long,  thick  brows  and 
a  face  that  sometimes  turned  white  under  a 
breath  of  unuttered  apprehension.  Abbe  Le 
Suet  was  an  adviser  to  whom  many  applied  in 
trouble,  but  from  whom  few  received  comfort. 
Those  who  sought  him  had  often  to  leave  his 
presence  taking  little  provision  with  them  on 
their  homeward  journey  except  such  phrases  as 
they  might  have  read  for  themselves  in  the  news- 
papers: "The  times  are  very  difficult.  But  with 
goodwill  things  may  be  settled — goodwill  on  both 
sides.  The  Catholic  party  is  not  entirely  faultless. 
You  certainly  have  cause  of  complaint,  and  I  feel 
for  you;  but  you  should  have  foreseen  this,  and 
done  that,  and  thought  of  the  other,  etc.,  etc.,  in 
good  time;  you  understand  me — in  good  time." 
But  precisely  what  he  advised,  or  would  in  good 
time  have  advised,  neither  those  who  had  known 
him  for  years  nor  those  who  knew  him  little  could 
easily  tell.  He  had  always  blamed  his  friends,  he 
had  always  had  his  fears.  His  function  had  been 
that  of  a  discreet  drag  upon  the  hasty.  His  way 
was  to  advise  no  action  whatever  "for  the  pres- 
ent." His  mind  worked  most  clearly  and  most 
effectually  among  small  local  and  ecclesiastical 


THE  NUN  103 

affairs  strictly  of  the  past.  On  those  subjects 
he  was  profuse.  His  memory  was  inexhaustible. 
He  remembered  the  " unfortunate"  phrases  that 
had  escaped  former  vicaires  before  the  Council — 
that  is,  phrases  of  too  "ultramontain"  a  char- 
acter. No  such  phrases  were  recorded  of  any 
speech  of  his.  His  almsgiving  was  normal.  He 
was  supposed  to  be  rich,  but  this  word  is  alto- 
gether relative  when  a  French  priest  is  in  question. 
Some  of  his  colleagues  were  dazzled  by  the  com- 
fortable appointments  of  his  waiting-room,  inas- 
much as  the  chairs  were  covered  with  blue  rep,  and 
the  walls  hung  with  old  prints  of  sacred  subjects 
after  one  or  other  of  the  Poussins,  and  the  room 
contained,  moreover,  a  vase  of  artificial  flowers 
(under  glass),  the  offering  of  some  community  of 
nuns,  and  a  cuckoo  clock  from  the  Black  Forest. 
The  owner  of  all  this  luxury  was  wont  to  repeat 
the  sermons  of  his  earlier  years,  touching  them 
to  life  by  means  of  exceedingly  modern  instances. 
He  had  been  appointed  Honorary  Canon  in  1885. 
His  chances  of  a  bishopric  had  been  spoken  of,  but 
were  spoken  of  no  longer.  He  might  have  been  a 
candidate,  not  through  vanity  merely,  but  by  the 
conviction  that  he  would  have  been  a  good  "  ad- 
ministrator"— a  Bishop  of  business.  He  was,  in 
fact,  a  good  layman,  tonsured;  he  was  orthodox, 
of  medium  character,  of  mediocre  intellect,  always 
incapable  of  falsehood,  or  treason,  but  now  also 
incapable  of  action,  desiring  peace  in  the  midst 
of  war,  a  straggler  playing  the  flute  in  the  rear 
of  an  army. 

When  Sister  Justine  rang  the  Canon's  bell,  the 


104  THE  NUN 

servant,  the  clean,  the  cool,  the  aged  Zoe,  who 
looked  somewhat  like  a  police  inspector,  knew 
her  at  once,  and  said  drily: 

"I  hardly  know  whether  Monsieur  le  Supe"rieur 
can  see  you.  I  should  be  surprised,  as  he  is  leav- 
ing this  afternoon." 

"For  Paris?"  asked  Sister  Justine. 

"No,  he  is  going  to  Vichy." 

She  returned  after  five  minutes. 

"Come  in;  but  don't  stay  long." 

She  showed  the  Sisters,  with  a  motion  of  her 
shoulder,  the  door,  which  they  had  crossed  more 
than  once  before,  and  retreated  to  her  kitchen. 

Almost  immediately  the  priest  appeared,  from 
his  own  parlour,  made  no  apology  for  receiving 
the  nuns  in  the  waiting-room,  and  took  his  seat  in 
an  armchair,  saying: 

"Let  me  hear  what  you  wish  to  say." 

Then  he  closed  his  eyes. 

They  had  taken  the  two  small  chairs.  The 
priest,  leaning  forward  with  his  elbows  on  his 
knees,  nodded  slowly  and  made  inarticulate 
sounds  in  parentheses  to  the  narrative  of  Sister 
Justine,  so  as  to  prove  to  her  that  he  was  not 
slumbering. 

"What  is  to  be  done,  Monsieur  le  Superieur?" 
she  asked,  at  the  end  of  her  report.  "We  are 
warned  that  our  school  is  to  be  closed  on  the 
day  after  to-morrow.  Are  we  to  make  any 
resistance?" 

"Certainly  not,"  said  the  Canon,  opening  his 
mouth  and  eyes  at  once,  and  speaking  in  a  tone 
of  authority.  "I  am  entirely  opposed  to  any- 


THE  NUN  105 

thing  of  the  kind.  What  about  the  Mother- 
House?  Would  you  get  that  closed  too?" 

"No,  Monsieur  le  Superieur;  we  wish  only  to 
record  our  right.  If  there  is  no  show  of  violence, 
if  the  convent  is  not  attacked,  how  will  the 
people  know  that  it  is  not  by  our  own  wish  that 
we  are  forsaking  our  work?" 

The  priest  said: 

"Do  not  let  us  provoke ' 

"But,  Monsieur  le  Superieur,  they  are  robbing 
us,  they  are  turning  us  out  of  our  own  property, 
they  are  tearing  our  children  from  us,  they  are 
preventing  our  community  life ' 

"Excuse  me,  excuse  me — 

"Well,  our  community  life  in  Lyons,  at  any 
rate.  We  are  to  leave  the  school  in  two  days,  and 
to  retire  to  the  Mother-House." 

"Who  told  you  that?" 

"Why,  the  police  people.  Where  should  we  go 
if  not  there?" 

"It  is  quite  impossible,"  said  the  priest,  ad- 
justing his  glasses  and  looking  at  the  two  women 
alternately.  "It  is  quite  out  of  the  question  for 
you  to  be  received  at  the  Mother-House.  It  is 
absolutely  full." 

The  Sisters  started.    They  said  together: 

"What,  do  you  mean  that  we  cannot  go  to 
Clermont?" 

"I  am  advised,"  replied  the  priest,  "by  a  letter 
from  the  Superior-General,  who  is  in  great  dis- 
tress— I  was  going  to  write  to  tell  you  before  I 
left — that  there  is  no  room." 

"But  then?" 


106  THE  NUN 

He  lifted  both  hands,  as  though  to  say/ 'So  it  is." 

"That  means  we  must  separate?" 

He  bowed. 

"We  must  be  secularised?" 

He  bowed  again. 

"Separate — Sister  Danielle,  Sister  Edwige,  Sis- 
ter Pascale?" 

"My  dear  daughter 

"Give  up  our  work,  our  teaching,  go  back  into 
the  world,  lose  all — all?  You  have  not  settled 
it?  We  may  still  telegraph  to  the  Mother-House? 
They  might 

' '  I  know  what  they  might  do,  and  it  is  very  little 
indeed,"  broke  in  the  Canon. 

He  opened  a  drawer,  and  took  between  his 
finger  and  thumb  some  coins  wrapped  in  a  piece 
of  newspaper. 

"Very  little  indeed.  The  Mother-House  is 
poor,  and  three  thousand  nuns  have  now  to  be 
supported  without  return.  I  have  been  asked 
to  hand  to  each  of  you  forty  francs.  It  is  a  little 
send  off.  A  good  lady  has  also  provided,  I  hear, 
an  outfit  for  the  secularised  Sisters.  You  will 
call  on  her  on  leaving  the  school,  and  she  will 
supply  you." 

"And  then  where  do  we  go?" 

The  Canon  rose  and  made  a  melancholy  grimace 
because  of  the  embarrassment  of  the  interview. 

"Wherever  you  may  find  a — an  opening.  Cir- 
cumstances have  been  too  strong  for  us.  I  am 
truly  sorry  that  I  in  vain  foretold  what  was  to 
happen.  You  must  practise  self-sacrifice.  You 
must  bow  to  the  storm,  and  let  it  go  by." 


THE  NUN  107 

He  was  sincerely  distressed  at  having  to  see 
before  him  these  two  unhappy  women,  white  as 
their  frontlets.  Sister  Justine  paused  for  a  mo- 
ment, made  up  her  mind  not  to  resist  him,  and 
stammered:  " Good-bye,  Monsieur  le  Supe"rieur; 
we  shall  not  forget  your  goodness.  We  beg  you 
to  remember  us  in  your  prayers." 

Both  the  Sisters  bowed  respectfully  and  crossed 
his  door  again.  At  the  street  corner  Sister 
Danielle  said,  without  halting,  as  they  went: 

"Passio  Domini  Nostri  Jesu  Christi"  Her 
voice  was  firm,  but  thrilling  with  energy  and  in- 
dignation. She  looked  along  the  quay  with  its 
houses,  she  looked  at  the  mass  of  the  city,  and  in 
these  she  saw  the  world  upon  which  she  had  just 
been  cast  back,  which  she  had  abjured,  the  world, 
which  meant  trouble,  impurity,  blasphemy,  pride 
of  dress,  all  that  made  against  the  peace  of  the 
spirit.  Within  her  soul  the  virgin,  the  woman, 
the  peasant  protested,  but  she  controlled  that 
revolt,  commanding  all  except  the  turbulent  blood 
that  rushed  from  her  beautiful  face  to  her  suffer- 
ing heart.  Sister  Justine  was  busy  with  thoughts 
about  the  thing  to  be  done.  Long,  long  ago  she 
had  formed  her  judgment  of  men,  and  had  forgiven 
them  beforehand  whatever  injustice,  whatever  un- 
kindness,  whatever  insult,  they  might  make  her 
endure.  In  the  street,  from  the  moment  of  her 
first  step,  one  resolution  had  been  taken,  and 
another  was  in  her  thoughts.  The  only  sign  of 
her  distress  was  the  greater  than  usual  vigour  and 
assurance  of  her  aspect.  The  old  nun  marched 
quickly,  eyes  front,  like  a  soldier. 


108  THE  NUN 

" Where  are  we  going?"  asked  Danielle. 

1 '  Why,  to  get  advice, ' '  said  the  Superior  with  that 
short  laugh  which  mingled  so  much  good  humour 
with  her  office  and  her  authority.  ' '  For,  indeed,  it 
is  hardly  advice  that  we  have  just  received." 

"Our  work  is  at  an  end,"  said  Sister  Danielle. 

"But  the  Sisters  are  not  at  an  end,  dear  child." 

"And  who  now  will  advise  us,  Mother?" 

"The  saints.  There  are  always  saints,  and  now 
there  is  no  one  else." 

Her  companion  knew  then  that  they  were  on 
their  way  to  the  Abbe  Monechal.  At  the  end  of 
the  Place  Bellecour  Sister  Justine  turned  to  the 
left,  and  they  walked  to  the  foot  of  the  heights 
of  the  Croix  Rousse. 

This  priest  lived  in  the  over-populated  quarter 
of  the  Torreaux,  wrhere,  within  smoky  and  leprous 
walls,  a  great  number  of  silk  merchants  and  manu- 
facturers had  their  offices.  In  a  house  of  business, 
with  agents  and  workmen  on  the  upper  storeys, 
and  in  poor  rooms,  once  roughly  repaired  and  since 
then  again  stained  and  faded,  he  dwelt  on  a  ground 
floor  well  fitted  for  the  very  poor.  It  was  also 
well  fitted  for  a  priest,  their  friend.  There  was 
an  approach  of  three  steps  to  the  front  door,  no 
bell,  and  the  first  room,  unfurnished,  with  plas- 
tered walls,  gave  access  to  another,  smaller,  an 
alcove  with  no  door,  in  which  the  priest  set  at 
night  his  camp  bed,  folded  up  by  day.  The  whole 
of  the  mornings  and  a  part  of  the  afternoons  he 
devoted  here  to  his  visitors — hunger,  misery, 
grievance,  discontent,  destitution,  vice,  virtue  in 
disguise,  grief  beyond  consolation.  The  outer 


THE  NUN  109 

room  served  for  those  who  awaited  their  turn ;  in 
the  inner  he  received  the  confidences  of  his  poor 
clients.  He  had  formed  part  of  the  body  called 
the  higher  clergy,  but  was  now  a  free  missionary, 
himself  in  want  by  reason  of  that  rare  and  splendid 
cause  of  ruin — charity. 

Sister  Justine  and  Sister  Danielle  were  not  kept 
waiting;  there  was  no  one  in  the  "drawing-room." 
Within,  they  saw,  bent  over  the  deal  table,  the 
weary  Abbe  asleep.  On  his  two  folded  arms 
rested  the  bowed  forehead,  and  nothing  was  to 
be  seen  but  two  cassock  sleeves,  a  broad  un- 
tonsured  head  with  short  white  hair,  and  a  back 
breathing  quietly.  The  two  nuns  waited  respect- 
fully at  a  few  steps'  distance  from  the  table. 
Other  visitors  might  have  made,  with  pretended 
inadvertence,  a  little  noise.  These  two,  by  un- 
spoken consent,  stood  silent,  and  inwardly  prayed 
for  the  man  who  was  resting  under  his  burden  of 
work,  and  who  was  lonelier  than  they.  His  lone- 
liness seemed  to  them  the  hardest  of  his  griefs. 
But  there  are  mysterious  bells  within  souls  that 
live  and  are  fervent.  A  part  of  the  being  that 
never  sleeps,  the  watcher  of  the  ship  at  anchor, 
now  roused  the  crew.  The  priest  raised  his  head, 
looked  up,  passed  his  hand  over  his  eyelids  and 
said,  without  embarrassment:  "I  beg  your  par- 
don, Sisters.  This  does  happen  to  me  some- 
times— I  am  growing  old."  His  memory  had  not 
yet  given  him  the  names  of  his  visitors.  But  a 
moment  later  he  recalled  them,  and  with  a  slight 
bow  he  said : 

"Sister    Justine,    I    think?    Sister    Danielle? 


110  THE  NUN 

Yes,  pray  sit  down.  On  whose  behalf  are  you 
here,  dear  children?" 

But  they  stood,  their  hands  in  their  sleeves. 
And  in  the  convent  dress,  hi  the  convent  attitude, 
they  almost  resembled  each  other  bearing  as  they 
did  the  mark  of  the  self-same  trouble.  They  looked 
like  witnesses  at  the  tribunal  of  God. 

"We  have  a  great  misfortune  to  endure,"  said 
Sister  Justine,  "and  we  have  come  to  ask  you  how 
we  are  to  meet  it." 

Then  she  told  the  story  of  the  last  three  days. 
The  Abbe  Monechal  listened  intently,  his  eyes 
lowered,  his  hands  on  the  table.  His  bald  brow 
with  its  wrinkled  protuberances,  his  large,  uneven 
nose;  his  wide  jaw  and  hollow  cheeks,  the  faded 
mouth,  deeply  marked  at  the  corners  with  the  fold 
of  compassion,  denoted  at  once  the  vigour  and  the 
weariness  of  the  man.  He  was  not  yet  old,  but  he 
was  deeply  worn.  Hearing  Sister  Justine,  he  was 
thinking: 

"More  suffering  for  the  poor.  How  the  impious 
hate  these  friends  of  Christ!  It  is  as  His  friends 
that  they  are  driven  out."  These  were  thoughts 
habitual  to  his  mind,  and  his  face  did  not  alter  as 
he  listened.  But  when  the  Superior  said,  "We 
have  just  been  to  see  Canon  Le  Suet;  he  told  us 
the  Mother-House  could  not  take  us  in,  so  that  we 
must  go  back — go  into  the  world  again 

"Into  the  wrorld  again!"  cried  the  priest.  His 
eyes  dilated,  in  the  energy  that  never  ages,  shinir.g 
with  a  pointed  light,  the  lofty  light  that  saves  from 
shipwreck. 

"My  poor  children,  I  suffer  with  you.    Your 


THE  NUN  111 

Community  is  to  die,  and  your  enemies  are  glad 
of  what  your  friends,  as  yet  know  nothing  of.  And 
these  perfect  souls,  these  saints — for  there  are 
saints  amongst  you — they  were  the  work  of  cen- 
turies of  daily  grace.  And  how  long  will  it  be 
before  the  slow  making  of  saints  can  begin  and 
can  work  on  to  that  end  again?  It  is  easy  to  say 
'Go  back  to  the  world,'  but  you  have  never  really 
lived  in  it;  you  are  not  fit  for  it;  you  have  not 
passed  through  the  novitiate  of  worldly  life.  You 
are  not  called;  you  are  not  ready." 

They  held  down  their  sorrowful  heads.  "  Yes," 
he  said  again,  "I  am  much  afraid.  Delicate  flow- 
ers are  soon  faded ;  there  will  be  some  spoilt  souls. 
And  amongst  those  who  will  remain,  how  many 
will  abate  their  early  loftiness  of  life!" 

He  saw  that  Danielle  was  weeping. 

"Forgive  me,  I  ought  not  to  make  you  cry. 
What  I  have  said  will  not,  I  trust,  be  true  of  you." 

"What  are  we  to  do?"  said  Sister  Justine,  harp- 
ing on  her  one  note. 

"You  have  no  choice.  You  will  be  dispensed 
from  your  vows  of  poverty  and  obedience.  You 
will  have  to  live  hi  a  middle  state  full  of  dangers. 
You,  Mother,  will  you  not  try  to  find  shelter  for 
as  many  of  your  daughters  as  you  can?" 

"I  have  very  young  ones." 

"I  know.  You  must  pray  once  for  the  old  nuns 
and  twice  for  the  young  ones.  You  will  pray 
amongst  the  perpetual  difficulties  of  the  life  be- 
fore you.  And  that  is  a  prevailing  prayer.  It 
should  be,  if  the  sum  of  virtue  is  not  to  be  lessened 
hi  France." 


112  THE  NUN 

He  rose  and  paced  the  narrow  room,  his  head 
bent. 

"And  take  notice,  Sister  Justine,  that  though 
you  are  no  longer  Superior,  you  are  none  the  less 
responsible." 

"  Yes,  Monsieur  1'Abbe." 

"Will  you  promise  to  forsake  none  of  them?" 

"I  love  them  all.  But  for  the  present  moment, 
Monsieur  1'Abbe?" 

"For  the  present  you  must  go  with  dignity, 
as  with  dignity  you  will  one  day  die." 

"It  is  like  death,"  whispered  Sister  Danielle. 

"In  the  first  place,  you  ought  to  hold  your 
usual  prize-giving." 

"And  say  good-bye  to  our  little  girls,  to  their 
mothers,  to  the  old  girls,  to  everyone?  I  thought 
so  too.  Ah,  I  am  glad  you  agree." 

She  had  resumed  her  old  expression  of  burly 
contentment. 

"You  are  too  weak  to  resist,"  added  the  priest, 
"but  at  least  let  right  and  justice  make  a  good 
end,  knowing  that  they  will  rise  again.  Do  not 
go  of  your  own  free  will,  but  submit  to  force. 
There  need  be  neither  blows  nor  outcries,  but 
there  should  be  witnesses  able  to  say  some  day, 
'They  did  not  forsake  us;  they  were  driven  out; 
they  would  be  glad  to  come  back;  let  us  call 
them!"  He  turned  abruptly  to  the  two  women. 
"You  are  penniless,  are  you  not?" 

"No,  Monsieur  PAbbe,  we  have  each  forty 
francs  which  the  Canon  gave  us,  from  the  Com- 
munity. They  can  do  no  more  for  us." 

He  paused,  as  though  thinking  something  that 


THE  NUN  113 

he  did  not  utter.  Then  he  raised  his  hand,  and 
the  Sisters  knelt. 

"I  bless  you/'  said  the  priest. 

They  rose,  bowed,  and,  the  one  following  the 
other,  passed  down  the  steps  and  out  into  the 
street. 

Ten  minutes  later  the  Abb6  Monechal  went 
out  in  his  turn,  and  taking  his  shabby  hat,  shaggy 
except  where  the  brim  was  bare — he  habitually 
lifted  it  to  many  very  insignificant  people — he 
walked  towards  the  Saone.  Following  the  Quai 
Saint  Vincent,  at  the  foot  of  the  Croix  Rousse,  he 
passed  the  narrow  gorge  of  the  river  with  its  high 
banks,  and  climbed  the  steep  avenue  of  the  Cours 
des  Chartreux. 

Almost  at  the  summit,  hi  a  plain  house,  the 
remains  of  an  ancient  palace  now  half  destroyed, 
had  lived  M.  Talier-Decapy  since  the  now  distant 
day  of  the  death  of  his  wife;  and  there  he  lived 
alone.  He  had  withdrawn  from  his  business  some 
months  before;  and  he  was  dying.  With  him  a 
great  commercial  name,  one  of  the  most  honour- 
able in  the  silk-industry,  would  come  to  an  end. 
He  was  a  hard-working  man,  absorbed  by  affairs 
from  his  youth  up,  slow  to  form  a  decision,  but 
tenacious  when  he  had  put  his  hand  to  any  task; 
he  had  established  either  factories  or  agencies  in 
Persia,  in  India,  in  Japan,  in  the  United  States; 
he  followed  closely  the  course  of  commerce 
throughout  the  world,  was  well  informed  and 
very  sure  of  himself  as  to  the  few  questions  that 
greatly  interested  him,  and  had  trebled  the  con- 
siderable capital  of  his  inheritance.  Having  lived, 


114  THE  NUN 

besides,  for  seventy  years  on  the  interest  of  his 
income  solely,  he  had  added  another  fortune  to  his 
capital.  He  had  no  taste  for  expenditure,  but  he 
was  not  miserly.  He  had  no  light  sense  of  the  re- 
sponsibility of  riches.  And  this  had  urged  him  to 
say  to  his  friend  the  Abbe"  Monechal:  "If  you 
should  know  that  my  end  is  near,  tell  me." 

The  priest  had  never  doubted  his  affection  nor 
his  fortitude.  But  the  ascent  to  the  old  man's 
house  was  made  with  pain,  and  slowly,  for  the 
errand  was  a  hard  one.  When  he  rang,  it  was 
done  hastily,  without  a  pause  for  thought.  The 
footman  admitted  him  without  waiting  for  his 
question :  ' '  How  is  he  ?  " 

"Very  ill,  Monsieur  1'Abbe*.  His  heart  jumps 
so.  He  still  walks  about,  but  he  sleeps  in  his 
chair." 

"And  there  is  not  much  sleeping  to  be  done 
there,  I  know  that,"  said  the  priest,  who  was 
obliged  to  pause  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  for  he 
was  one  of  those  whom,  little  by  little,  grief  de- 
stroys. On  the  second  floor  the  footman  led  him 
into  a  large  room  lighted  by  four  high  windows, 
two  of  which  were  open  to  the  west  and  two  to 
the  south. 

"Why,  it  is  the  Abbe,"  said  a  yet  unbroken 
voice. 

A  little  slender  man,  wrapped  in  a  dressing 
gown,  lifted  himself,  with  three  careful  efforts, 
from  his  armchair  by  one  of  the  southern  win- 
dows. M.  Talier-Decapy  was  built  for  activity, 
but  something  had  come  to  pass  to  tame  his 
vivacity  of  movement. 


THE  NUN  115 

"Well,  Monechal,"  he  said,  having  recovered 
his  breath,  "it  is  three  months  since  you  last  came 
to  see  me.  And  I  am  ill  enough!" 

"I  have  so  many  poor  patients,  my  friend. 
The  rich  ones  have  their  comforts." 

"But  I  have  none,  except  perhaps  this  view 
of  Lyons.  That,  I  confess,  is  pleasant  for  a  help- 
less man.  Come  and  see." 

He  bowed,  with  a  ceremony  curiously  hi  con- 
trast with  his  manner  of  addressing  his  friend  in 
the  second  person  singular,  and  allowed  the  priest 
to  stand  in  the  full  light  at  the  open  window. 
He  meanwhile  watched  the  eyes  of  his  visitor  as 
they  in  turn  watched  the  Saone  and  the  storm- 
cloud  coming  across  the  sky. 

The  priest's  face  wore  a  look  that  was  deliberate 
and  very  grave. 

"In  your  eyes,"  said  the  sick  man,  "I  can 
see  the  whole  city." 

The  other  made  no  motion. 

"I  see  the  river  hi  your  eyes;  it  is  so  bright — 
I  am  sure  there  are  barges  there,  and  the  Scorpion 
tugging  them  towards  Vaise.  There  is  the  spire 
of  Saint  Paul's,  the  two  spires  of  Saint  Nizier,  the 
dome  of  the  Hotel  Dieu,  the  innumerable  roofs  of 
the  Terreaux  and  of  Bellecour.  But  how  serious 
you  are,  Monechal!  What  are  you  looking  for?" 

"I  am  trying  to  count  the  churches  and  the 
Sacred  Hosts  that  are  keeping  guard  over  Lyons. 
Will  you  kneel  with  me?" 

M.  Talier-Decapy  knew  his  friend  too  well  to 
be  surprised ;  he  knelt. 

For  a  minute  there  was  no  sound  in  the  room. 


116  THE  NUK 

The  priest  rose  first,  and  raised  the  old  man,  be- 
fore whom  he  stood  leaning  against  the  window- 
post. 

"And  so,"  he  said,  "you  are  no  better?" 

"The  doctor  would  like  me  to  think  I  am 
better,  and  so  I  let  him  explain  to  me  the  many 
symptoms  of  my  recovery.  But  all  the  while  I 
know  I  am  very  ill." 

"And  you  are  right,"  said  the  priest,  with 
meaning. 

The  other  had  a  sudden  giddiness  from  the 
shock,  and  for  an  instant  he  closed  his  eyes  as 
though  the  light  hurt  them.  He  showed  that 
the  blow  had  told,  though  he  did  not  wince,  and 
hardly  grew  paler.  But  his  eyes  fastened  pas- 
sionately on  those  of  the  priest,  which  did  not 
turn  away,  did  not  seek  by  any  softening  look  to 
mitigate  those  significant  words,  yet  were  troubled 
and  soon  bright  with  tears.  Of  the  two  men  the 
most  moved  was  the  priest.  "I  promised  to  tell 
you,"  he  said  at  last ;  "  I  am  keeping  my  promise." 

"Everyone  else  would  have  deceived  me  to  the 
end,"  answered  the  sick  man.  "Thank  you. 
And  do  you  know  whether  it  will  be  long?" 

"Do  what  you  would  do  if  it  were  not  for 
long." 

Then  followed  a  passage  of  silent  communica- 
tion between  the  two  men.  The  thought  of  death, 
like  the  thought  of  their  friendship,  united  them, 
and  filled  the  moments  they  were  living  through. 
In  at  the  window  came  the  sound  of  the  city,  and 
over  the  horizon  a  cloud  like  a  sack  of  grain  was 
letting  its  rain  fall  through. 


THE  NUN  117 

M.  Talier-Decapy  lifted  his  bent  shoulders  and 
took  the  hands  of  the  priest. 

"What  ought  I  to  do,  my  friend,  with  the 
heavy  fortune  I  am  to  leave  behind?"  And  he 
added,  without  sadness:  "It  was  a  fortune  diffi- 
cult to  get,  not  easy  to  keep ;  I  should  like  to  leave 
it  usefully.  I  shall  not  disinherit  my  cousins;  I 
want  them  to  have  a  reasonable  sum.  But  when 
one  comes  to  the  pass  I  now  am  at,  one  thinks  of 
many  things  that  might  be  done.  Will  you  help 
me?" 

"No,  not  I,"  said  the  priest  decisively.  "But 
if  I  have  any  advice  to  give  you  it  is  that  you 
should  act  according  to  your  feeling  for  this  city 
of  yours.  Go  through  these  streets,  notice  what 
you  see,  remember  it.  And  when  you  have  drawn 
up  your  list  of  legatees,  I  shall  ask  you  to  give  a 
thought  to  one  poor  woman." 

"Who  is  she?" 

"You  know  that  the  Sisters  of  the  Place  Saint 
Pontique  are  to  be  evicted?" 

"I  did  not  know  it." 

"In  a  few  days." 

"Ah,  Monechal,  I  am  glad  to  be  leaving  this 
world  and  to  be  on  my  way  to  a  place  of  justice! 
And  you  wish  me  to  make  a  bequest  to  one  of 
the  Sisters?" 

"It  would  be  well — to  the  Superior;  a  small 
sum.  They  are  all  poor,  and  they  ought  to  be 
poor.  Their  trial  is  to  be  a  trial,  but  it  must 
not  be  too  crushing.  Will  you  go  to  them?" 

"Yes,  I  promise.    And  will  you  see  me  again?" 

The  priest  could  not  reply.    He  rose,  and  the 


118  THE  NUN 

two  friends  took  leave  of  each  other  gravely, 
the  heart  of  each  filled  with  an  unuttered  admira- 
tion. Hardly  had  M.  Monechal  left  him  when  the 
manufacturer  told  his  servant  to  telephone  for  the 
carriage.  Two  hours  later,  much  fatigued,  having 
driven  through  a  great  part  of  the  city,  and  drawn 
up  a  long  list  of  legatees,  M.  Talier-pecapy  drove 
to  the  door  of  the  school  on  the  Place.  Saint  Pon- 
tique.  It  was  with  difficulty  that  he  held  himself 
erect. 

Sister  Justine  received  him  in  the  little  parlour 
to  the  right  of  the  front  door.  She  came  quickly, 
with  her  own  serene  and  active  manner.  He  did 
not  know  her;  he  had  expected  to  see  an  anxious 
woman  in  tears,  and  involuntarily  he  showed  his 
surprise. 

"Are  you  not  turned  out  of  your  convent, 
Sister?" 

"Ah!  yes — we  are  indeed." 

"Is  it  to  be  soon?" 

"At  once." 

"I  should  wish  to  have  your  address — your 
address  after  the  eviction.  I  might  have  some- 
thing to  say  to  you,  or  some  little  help  to  give 
you.  I  can  but  suppose  that  you  will  need  some 
help?" 

"If  you  could  tell  me  where  we  shall  find  a 
shelter  a  week  hence  I  should  be  glad,"  said 
Sister  Justine,  with  a  laugh.  "Not  one  of  us 
has  any  idea  what  is  to  become  of  her.  Let  me 
have  by  post  what  you  are  pleased  to  give  us— 
it  will  be  sent  after  me." 

"Unless  hands  are  laid  upon  the  money  with 


THE  NUN  119 

all  the  rest.  My  poor  Sister,  let  me  tell  you  that 
business  does  not  seem  to  be  your  strong  point." 

"Well,  hardly.  But  neither  am  I  good  at 
making  excuses  for  my  defects,"  she  replied. 

M.  Talier-De"capy  noted  in  writing  the  family 
name  of  Sister  Justine,  and  when  he  was  again  in 
his  own  room  he  added  this  to  his  list:  "My  heirs 
will  also  find  out  the  place  of  residence  of  Madame 
Marie  Mathis,  in  religion  Sister  Justine,  late  Su- 
perior of  the  school  in  the  Place  Saint  Pontique, 
and  will  place  at  her  disposal  the  sum  of  three 
thousand  francs,  to  be  applied  to  the  benefit  of  the 
Sisterhood." 

He  did  not  know  that  he  was  indirectly  giving 
succour  to  the  little  Pascale  Mouvand,  the  child 
of  the  master-weaver  who  had  so  long  worked  for 
him,  and  who  had  died  at  his  loom  while  weaving 
a  court  dress  for  the  coronation  of  the  English 
King. 

****** 

On  the  evening  of  the  same  day,  in  the  room 
in  which  they  met  when  the  weather  prevented 
their  out-of-door  recreation,  the  five  nuns  were 
again  together.  They  had  taken  chairs,  and  they 
sat  in  a  semicircle  at  the  window,  in  a  dusk, 
that  was  now  and  then  shattered  by  lightning. 
And  at  every  flash  the  gleam  showed  one  or  two 
cf  the  gentle  hands  making  the  sign  of  the  Cross 
on  frontlet  and  white  breast.  The  Superior  was 
telling  the  story  of  the  afternoon's  two  visits. 
She  announced  the  inevitable  end  of  community 
life,  the  necessity  for  each  to  go  out  into  a  world 


120  THE  NUN 

abjured  five  years  ago,  ten  years  ago,  twenty  years 
ago,  forty  years  ago,  and  to  seek  a  shelter,  labour, 
daily  bread.  The  four  were  motionless  at  the 
close.  There  were  no  comments  and  no  questions. 
The  rain  rattled  sharply  as  hail  upon  the  window- 
panes.  After  a  long  silence  the  Superior  resumed : 

"You  will  write,  dear  children,  to  ask  your 
families  to  receive  you,  at  any  rate  until  I  may 
have  found  situations  for  one  or  two  as  school- 
teachers. No  doubt  it  will  take  time." 

Sister  Danielle  and  Sister  Edwige  bent  their 
heads  in  assent. 

"I  have  no  family  left,"  said  Sister  Le"onide. 

"And  I  have  only  a  cousin,"  said  Sister  Pas- 
cale,  "and  she  lives  a  long  way  off." 

"I  wished  to  speak  to  you  about  that  matter," 
said  the  Superior.  "Stay  here  while  the  others 
write  their  letters." 

The  Superior  and  Sister  Pascale  remained  to- 
gether. The  fading  day,  the  coming  stars,  as  the 
clouds  dispersed,  showed  the  white  face  and 
white  veil  of  Pascale,  her  hands  folded  on  her 
knee,  her  lips  apart,  as  she  caught  her  breath  in 
distress. 

"My  little  Sister  Pascale,"  said  the  old  nun, 
"it  is  for  you  that  I  am  most  anxious.  You 
are  so  young!"  she  added  in  her  sad  thoughts, 
"and  so  lovely.  You  have  distant  cousins  at 
Nimes?  Yes,  but  before  I  entrust  you  to  them 
• — you,  my  treasure,  the  most  fragile  of  my  treas- 
ures— I  must  know  something  of  them.  Are  they 
really  good  people ;  shall  you  be  safe  in  their  house 
if  I  let  you  go?" 


THE  NUN  121 

"But  where  else  can  I  go,  Mother?  I  have  not 
learnt  any  business." 

She  coloured.  For  when,  a  few  moments  ago, 
she  had  heard  that  the  breaking  up  of  the  com- 
munity was  not  to  be  avoided,  she  had  been 
aware — even  in  the  keenness  of  her  grief  and  in 
the  midst  of  her  sorrowful  sisters — that  the 
thought  of  Nimes  was  much  alive  in  her  mind. 
She  had  vividly  recalled,  in  quick  mental  vision, 
the  house  of  the  Prayous,  the  hill  of  Montauri, 
the  neighbouring  city,  and  had  remembered  the 
days  in  which  she  had  received — she,  poor  Pas- 
cale — those  unaccustomed  attentions,  that  nov- 
elty of  homage.  Her  youth,  she  felt,  was  stirred ; 
well  versed  in  the  art  of  self-observation,  alert  in 
marking  the  motions  of  her  heart,  the  young 
nun  knew  that  a  thought  of  pleasure  was  within 
her;  she  knew  that  perilous  was  this  pleasure. 
And  she  had  already  yielded  to  its  temptation 
when  she  had  made  her  vague  and  evasive  answer. 

''You  have  not  learnt  a  business,"  Sister 
Justine  proceeded,  "and  of  all  my  children  you 
are  the  most  delicate  and  least  fitted  for  work. 
Your  lungs  are  weak.  Until  I  can  place  you  in 
a  school — if  I  ever  can — a  country  life  in  the 
South  would  be  perfect  for  you.  But  tell  me, 
would  you  be  spiritually  safe?" 

Sister  Pascale  did  not  meet  the  Mother's  atten- 
tive and  anxious  eyes.  She  glanced  away  at  the 
night  sky.  She  was  troubled,  because  the  responsi- 
bility for  her  own  future  was,  by  this  question,  laid 
upon  her  acknowledged  weakness.  She  answered : 

"I  don't  think  he  would  be  dangerous  for  me. 


122  THE  NUN 

He  will  remember  that  I  am — perhaps  he  is 
married  by  now.  As  for  my  aunt,  she  was  really 
like  a  mother  to  me." 

The  rain  fell  afresh.  There  was  a  sound  of 
running  water  in  the  deserted  place. 

"Then  you  will  write  to  Nimes,"  said  Sister 
Justine,  and  the  two  women  rose. 


On  the  morrow,  which  was  the  20th  of  June, 
and  a  Friday,  the  Sisters  were  definitely  informed 
of  the  day  which  was  to  be  their  last  together, 
and  of  the  treatment  they  were  to  receive.  Ursula 
Magre  had  sent  the  required  report  to  the  chief 
of  police,  who  was  satisfied  that  with  a  little 
diplomacy  he  would  be  spared  the  unpleasant 
necessity  of  violence  against  women,  with  the 
spectacle  of  shattered  doors,  of  forcible  entry  into 
bolted  cells,  with  the  noise,  the  protests,  the  whole 
display  of  house-breaking,  which  the  spectators 
are  apt  to  take  ill.  A  timely  word  on  behalf  of 
the  Mother-House  had  made  all  smooth.  A 
commissaire  called  on  the  Superior.  He  was  a 
jovial-looking  man,  who  at  the  first  glance  seemed 
more  than  good-natured — familiar,  and  on  ac- 
quaintance proved  to  be  so.  He  took  the  tone 
appropriate  to  his  character,  and  as  he  thought,  to 
the  occasion.  Sister  Justine  received  him,  stand- 
ing in  the  corridor,  a  few  steps  within  the  door. 

"My  poor  lady,"  he  said,  "my  business  is  not 
always  a  joke  for  me " 

"Mine  never  is  to  me,"  interrupted  the  Su- 
perior. "You  have  come  to  expel  me?" 


THE  NUN  123 

"No,  Madame.  Compose  yourself,  and  let  us 
have  our  talk  without  losing  our  tempers.  I  have 
called  with  the  order  for  closing  the  school  and  for 
vacating  the  premises— 

"Which  are  our  own  property." 

"That  is  not  my  business.  They  have  to  be 
vacated.  I  am  not  an  unkind  man,  and  I  am 
willing  that  you  should  choose  your  own  day,  but 
on  condition  that  there  shall  be  no  disturbance, 
no  kind  of  demonstration  whatever.  The  matter 
is  in  your  own  hands." 

"I  know  it  is." 

"Then  we  understand  each  other?" 

Deeply  humiliated,  her  hands  idle  at  her  side, 
very  careful  of  her  words,  so  that  she  might  in 
no  way  compromise  that  dear  house  at  Clermont, 
in  which  the  race  of  saintly  women  might  yet  be 
suffered  to  survive,  yet  keeping  her  eyes  level  and 
abating  none  of  the  dignity  of  her  defeat  by  any 
word  or  tone  of  entreaty  or  of  fear,  Sister  Justine 
informed  the  police  emissary  of  her  resolution. 
She  desired  a  delay  of  a  week  in  order  to  prepare 
for  departure.  She  desired  to  hold  the  prizer 
giving  as  usual.  She  wished  that  last  gathering 
to  be  on  Friday,  the  weekly  day  of  the  Passion. 
She  asked  that  a  police  agent  should  lay  hands 
upon  her  shoulders,  as  on  those  of  an  arrested 
criminal.  She  would  leave  on  the  evening  of 
the  same  day.  On  her  part  she  engaged  not  to 
spread  the  tidings  of  the  expulsion,  and  not  to 
allow  the  hour  of  departure  to  be  known  to  any 
but  the  Sisters  themselves. 

The  man  made  a  show  of  quarrelling  with  the 


124  THE  NUN 

terms,    but    finally   agreed.    He    had    obtained 
precisely  what  he  had  been  sent  to  secure. 

The  week  that  followed  was  much  like  the  last 
week  of  all  other  scholastic  years.  When  the 
mistresses  announced  to  the  classes  that  the 
prize-giving  would  take  place  on  the  unusual  date 
of  the  27th  there  was  much  surprise.  On  the 
morrow  the  parents  protested.  Some  of  them 
threatened  to  take  away  their  girls  if  the  holidays 
were  to  be  made  so  intolerably  long;  a  few  sus- 
pected or  understood,  and  the  clamour  subsided. 
Within  the  school  the  examinations  proceeded, 
the  lists  were  made,  and  the  Sisters  were  up  late  at 
work  on  the  correction  of  exercises.  They  tried 
to  talk  of  the  "fete,"  as  they  used  to  do.  Sister 
Pascale  and  Sister  Edwige  had  orders  to  make  the 
garlands  of  green  box  wherewith  the  schoolroom 
had  always  been  hung.  Until  the  last  moment, 
order  and  tradition  governed  the  life  of  the 
convent.  A  young  girl  of  the  district  helped 
them  hi  this  last  labour — Louise  Casale,  an 
ironer,  obliged  by  anaemia  to  forego  the  labour 
and  the  atmosphere  of  the  ironing-room.  She 
had  not  been  a  pupil  of  the  convent,  but  had 
been  educated  at  a  lay-school  in  total  ignorance 
of  all  religion,  hi  spite  of  which  the  thing  they 
had  not  taught  her  had  strongly  attracted  her 
heart,  so  that  for  many  months  past  she  had 
watched  for  opportunities  of  speaking  to  the 
Sisters,  of  offering  them  such  small  sendees  as 
she  had  to  give,  and  of  showing  them  her  ingenu- 
ous sympathy.  When  bringing  linen  to  the  house 
she  had  made  acquaintance,  one  by  one,  with  all 


THE  NUN  125 

the  five;  and  having  heard  that  the  prize-giving 
was  near,  she  asked  permission  to  help  in  the 
11  decorations." 

"I  know  a  garden,"  she  said,  with  her  southern 
accent,  "  where  there  is  a  great  deal  of  box  to 
spare.  The  gardener  is  a  friend  of  mine — only 
just  a  friend,  mind  you.  Though  I  have  been 
brought  up  in  the  laique,  I  am  an  honest  girl  all 
the  same." 

"You  have  the  eyes  of  one,  Louise,"  Sister 
Justine  had  answered  her.  "No  one  will  ever 
make  a  mistake  about  that.  Shall  I  show  you 
how  I  believe  in  you?  I  am  going  to  lend  you 
Sister  Leonide  for  half  a  day." 

Louise  Casale  clapped  her  hands. 

"Just  half  a  day.  You  will  cut  the  box  to- 
gether, and  perhaps  you  will  find  another  friend 
of  yours  who  will  carry  it  home." 

She  had  returned  to  the  convent  with  a  barrow 
full  of  "green,"  and  now  in  the  largest  room — 
which  was  a  play-room  in  bad  weather  and  a 
theatre  once  a  year,  when  the  Shrove  Tuesday 
play  was  acted  by  the  little  girls — three  women, 
standing  in  drifts  and  piles  of  leaves,  tied  the  sprigs 
in  bunches  to  long  ropes  for  festoons  and  wreaths. 
They  carried  the  box  about  in  their  gowns  held  up 
by  the  hems.  They  were  Sister  Edwige,  Sister 
Pascale,  and  Louise  Casale.  This  girl,  tall,  brown, 
well  built  and  broad  of  shoulder,  lacked  nothing 
for  the  bloom  of  beauty  except  a  richer  flow  of 
blood,  and  of  this  nothing  but  her  work  had  robbed 
her.  Her  thin  cheeks,  of  extreme  pallor,  and  her 
narrow  nose  looked  too  small  for  her  wide  white 


126  THE  NUN 

brows  and  her  great  eyes,  over-long,  and  dwelling 
in  perpetual  shadow. 

It  was  the  eve  of  the  exhibition-day.  Louise 
and  the  Sisters  fastened  paper  roses  at  intervals 
on  the  garlands,  from  the  stock  used  already  in 
ten  successive  years.  They  required  a  consider- 
able distance  hi  order  to  be  recognised  as  flowers, 
even  of  paper. 

"Here  are  at  least  twenty  metres,"  said  Louise. 
"Two  metres  more,  and  we  have  done.  What 
time  is  it?" 

"Half  past  five,"  said  Sister  Pascale.  "My 
hands  are  all  green.  I  am  glad  we  have  not  to 
put  up  the  wreaths  till  the  morning."  She  added 
in  another  tone,  "It  will  be  pretty,  won't  it?" 

There  was  no  answer.  A  noise  of  wheels  out- 
side mingled  with  the  rustling  of  the  foliage 
within.  Then  Louise  spoke  to  her  in  a  resolute 
low  voice: 

"Sister  Pascale,  please  tell  me — don't  keep  me 
in  the  dark." 

"What  am  I  to  tell  you?" 

"Why,  that  you  are  going.  You  are  going,  are 
you  not?  Something  has  happened?  Am  I 
right?  Have  I  guessed?" 

They  were  close  to  one  another,  like  two  rope- 
spinners  meeting.  They  had  ceased  working. 
Even  Sister  Edwige  caught  the  words.  She  did 
not  look  round,  but  her  hands  too  paused.  Sister 
Pascale  could  not  answer.  But  she  looked  at  the 
girl  whom  chance,  and  something  more,  had 
brought  to  her  side  in  that  supreme  hour.  And 
hardly  had  their  eyes  met  when  the  two  young 


THE  NUN  127 

creatures  opened  their  arms  and  gathered  each 
other  heart  against  heart,  weeping.  O  mournful 
and  hopeless  friendship!  Strangers  a  while  ago, 
met  from  afar,  they  would  have  loved  one  another, 
but  they  were  to  part  forever. 

" Forgive  me,  Sister  Pascale,"  said  Louise,  "I 
am  sorry.  I  like  you  so!" 

Sister  Pascale  took  from  the  fold  of  her  dress  a 
few  last  sprigs  of  box,  but  she  seemed  to  see 
nothing  more  of  her  wreath-making;  her  little 
fingers  mechanically  smoothed  the  leaves  as 
though  they  had  been  millinery  feathers  that  she 
was  putting  into  shape.  Her  breast  heaved,  and 
her  head  sank.  Louise,  taller  than  she,  bent  close 
to  the  black  veil  and  whispered : 

"I  am  not  really  pious,  as  you  are,  but  I  love 
coming  here.  I  have  thought  about  ever  so 
many  things.  And  only  six  months  ago  I  didn't 
know  you;  I  used  to  talk  against  the  Sisters — I 
did.  And  now  when  I  think  of  getting  mar- 
ried— .  Did  you  ever  think  about  getting 
married  before  you  were  a  Sister?" 

"Why,  yes,"  said  Pascale,  "like  all  girls." 

"Well,  sometimes  I  think  I  should  like  the  kind 
of  marriage  that  one  would  never  be  sorry  for 
afterwards.  Sometimes  I  think  I  should — not 
always." 

"Ah!  that  is  not  an  easy  matter." 

"You  don't  understand.  I  mean  a  marriage 
like  yours,  that  one  would  never  be  sorry  for  in 
one's  own  real  soul." 

"Oh,  my  little  girl,"  said  Pascale;  "what  a 
time  to  tell  me  such  a  thing!" 


128  THE  NUN 

"Yes,"  said  Louise.  "What  a  time!  I  ought 
to  have  kept  my  silliness  to  myself.  Well,  it's 
all  over.  When  you  are  gone  I  shall  go  back  and 
be  just  like  all  the  others." 

Sister  Edwige  had  turned.  A  stout  figure, 
active  and  short-legged,  had  entered. 

"Come,  my  children,  in  two  minutes  you  must 
wind  up.  It's  recreation  time.  I  am  not  turning 
you  out,  Louise.  Why!  what  is  the  matter? 
What  is  this  tragic  look  about?" 

Louise  scattered  on  the  floor  the  box  she  had 
carried  in  her  skirt. 

"I  am  going,"  she  said.    "Good-bye,  Sisters." 

"Does  she  know?"  asked  Sister  Justine;  and 
Sister  Edwige  answered,  "Yes." 

The  Superior  called  down  the  passage,  hoping 
that  her  voice  would  overtake  the  girl : 

"Say  nothing,  Louise,  say  nothing,  for  our 
sakes." 

An  uncertain  answer  was  sent  back,  broken  by 
the  echoes,  and  unintelligible. 

"Come  to  recreation,  my  children,"  commanded 
the  Superior. 

Sister  Edwige  and  Sister  Pascale  let  go  the 
wreath  they  had  fastened  off,  and  said  with  one 
voice : 

"It  is  the  last  recreation." 

And  seeing  that  Sister  Justine  was  already  on 
her  way  to  the  terrace,  they  followed  her,  keeping 
together,  holding  each  other  by  the  hand — a  thing 
they  had  never  done  before — and  walked  thus  to 
the  end  of  the  alley,  where  the  other  three  awaited 
them. 


THE  NUN  129 

Again  they  were  ranged,  three  on  one  side,  two 
on  the  other,  and  the  two  were  Edwige  and 
Pascale.  But  to-night  they  did  not  keep  under 
the  shed;  they  walked  in  the  court-yard.  The 
law,  the  rule  of  their  vocation  called  and  con- 
trolled them.  As  lovers  return  to  the  scene  of 
their  loves,  and  tread  again  their  own  vestiges 
and  walk  in  the  paths  of  the  beloved  past,  these 
women  spent  the  last  hours  of  their  liberty  in 
the  place  where  their  children  had  lived  with 
them  a  full  and  happy  life — their  children  to 
whom  they  had  devoted  themselves,  who  had 
been  the  cause  and  end  of  their  self-sacrifice,  as 
they  were  now  the  innocent  cause  of  their  trouble. 
After  recreation,  they  knew,  there  would  be  prayer 
in  church,  and  no  silent  meeting  to  follow,  for  on 
this  night  they  must  be  busy  preparing  for  the 
morrow's  journey. 

The  sun,  very  low,  illumined  the  dust  of  the 
air,  and  there  was  not  the  least  particle  or  atom 
that  did  not  carry  light  in  the  golden  atmosphere. 
A  summer  day  like  so  many  of  its  fellows  was  com- 
ing to  an  end  amid  the  labour,  the  sweat,  the  pain 
of  the  city.  Workmen  were  still  at  their  post, 
employers  in  their  offices,  at  their  tables,  at  their 
telephones.  And  meanwhile,  a  loss  immeasurable 
was  about  to  befall  them;  for  five  women  were 
together  for  the  last  time  amongst  them.  When 
these  were  dispersed  and  gone,  innumerable  lives 
would  be  made  poorer,  would  be  altered,  would  be 
lowered.  One  kind  of  riches,  less  honoured  than 
another  in  the  world,  had  come  to  an  end.  A 
grief,  pitied  by  few,  had  locked  hi  a  last  clasp  of 


130  THE  NUN 

farewell  five  human  creatures  of  whom  the  world 
was  not  worthy. 

Sister  Leonide  had  let  her  fire  go  out,  and 
would  never  light  it  again.  All  alike  controlled 
their  grief.  Sister  Justine,  her  face  drawn,  was 
resolute  to  keep  up  the  old  tone  of  motherly 
jollity  that  had  put  heart  into  her  nuns  and  into 
a  thousand  women  in  trouble.  Sister  Danielle 
endured  her  crucifixion,  clinging  with  all  her  will 
to  her  cross  of  sacrifice,  never  cruel  to  her  until 
to-day.  Within  her  heart  she  repressed  a  tempest 
of  indignation  and  revolt.  She  ordered  words 
of  peace  to  her  lips;  she  set  a  smile  there,  like  a 
knot  of  ribbon  on  the  cross  of  a  sword.  Sister 
Edwige  had  lost  her  serenity,  and  looked  much 
older ;  in  one  night  her  beautiful  eyes,  her  delicate 
cheeks,  had  gathered  a  setting  of  slight  wrinkles. 
Sister  Leonide  kept  her  customary  air,  cheerful 
and  alert ;  her  nickel  watch,  like  a  great  onion,  had 
slipped  below  her  waist-belt,  and  she  consulted 
it  as  though  her  office  as  time-keeper  was  the  chief 
thing  in  her  mind.  Sister  Pascale  stood  in  tears, 
looking  at  each  of  her  companions.  To-morrow 
Sister  Danielle  and  Sister  Edwige  would  be  gone 
to  their  relations,  far  away  and  far  apart.  To- 
morrow Sister  Leonide  would  set  off  for  the  village, 
where,  at  the  last  hour,  a  position  as  assistant 
teacher  in  a  free  school  had  been  found  for  her. 
To-morrow  she,  the  Lyons  girl,  would  have  left 
her  city  for  Nimes,  and  the  roof  of  her  aunt. 

The  five  women  paced  the  court-yard  between 
one  wall  and  another. 

"My  children,"  said  Sister  Justine,  "you  must 


THE  NUN  131 

think,  as  I  do,  of  the  generations  of  little  girls 
we  have  known  here.  We  have  watched  them  at 
play  where  we  are  standing." 

They  trod  the  dust  trampled  by  those  little  feet. 
One  cast  her  eyes  upon  the  sand,  with  its  intricate 
and  innumerable  foot-marks;  another  looked  at 
the  schoolroom  windows;  another  followed  with 
her  eyes  the  flight  of  a  flock  of  sparrows  that  came 
to  take  their  customary  possession  of  the  place 
towards  night-fall.  They  thought  of  the  little 
daughters  of  working  men  for  whose  benefit  all  had 
been  done — the  stones  built  up  into  walls,  the 
roof-tiles  set,  the  ground  levelled,  the  cement 
floor  laid,  and  their  own  lives  spent;  half  of  one 
life,  a  little  less  of  another,  the  greater  part  of  a 
third.  Soft  voices,  sweet  looks,  deep-reaching 
words,  dear  confidences,  faults  and  falsehoods  re- 
proved, ardours  and  passions  that  alarmed  these 
watchful  mistresses,  fervours  that  delighted  them 
— all,  all  those  childhoods  were  remembered. 

"We  must  pray  for  them  all  every  day,  every 
day  as  long  as  we  live;  that  will  be  our  perpetual 
presence  in  this  dear  place.  Promise ! " 

Bowed  heads  replied.  Sister  Justine  held  in 
leash  the  emotions  of  these  four  younger  women. 
Her  soldier  blood,  aware  of  the  moment  for  com- 
mand and  the  moment  for  relaxation  of  discipline, 
told  her  that  there  was  no  danger  of  coldness  or 
forgetfulness  among  these  daughters  of  her  heart, 
but  that  she  had  now  rather  to  harden  them 
against  too  painful  a  tenderness  towards  their 
lost  children. 

"To-morrow,  Sister  Leonide,"  she  said,  "re- 


132  THE  NUN 

veille  at  five  minutes  to  five.  We  shall  begin  the 
day  of  trial  by  hearing  Mass.  After  that  you  will 
nail  up  the  wreaths.  I  want  the  children  to  keep 
a  pleasant  recollection  of  their  last  term.  Let 
them  see  cheerful  things  about  us,  as  it  will  be 
difficult  for  us  to  show  them  cheerful  faces.  At 
ten  minutes  to  nine  you  will  put  the  parents  and 
the  children  in  their  places.  You,  Sister  Pascale, 
will  have  charge  of  the  little  girls;  you,  Sister 
Edwige,  of  the  grown-ups." 

"And  when  do  we  go?" 

"I  shall  give  you  the  time." 

"By  what  street?  Are  we  to  go  together? 
Where  are  we  to  turn,  Mother?" 

The  sun  went  down.  Sister  Leonide  pulled  up 
her  watch,  anxious  that  the  evening  should  not 
overtake  her  with  her  task  unfinished.  They 
were  silent;  and  a  single  thought  that  had  not 
been  far  from  each  now  took  possession  of  them 
all.  They  had  not  yet  suffered  the  utmost.  The 
moment,  the  brief  moment  of  real  parting  had 
come,  for  to-morrow  no  one  must  weep ;  to-night 
they  might  be  weak  and  weep.  The  five  women 
stopped  in  the  corner  of  the  court-yard,  to  the 
east.  They  drew  together.  Hardly,  from  any 
window  of  an  overlooking  house,  could  the  little 
group  of  blue  homespun  gowns  and  black  veils 
be  perceived  in  the  twilight.  £nd  if  they  were 
seen,  what  mattered  it?  The  Superior  held  out 
her  arms. 

"Come,"  she  said,  "my  children,  and  let  me 
kiss  you.  And  now  if  you  have  any  last  requests 
to  make,  the  time  is  short." 


THE  NUN  133 

The  four  nuns,  successively  in  the  order  of  their 
age,  came  to  her  heart  and  took  the  kiss  of  peace. 
Their  Mother  having  kissed  them  on  either  cheek, 
traced  on  their  brows  the  sign  of  the  Cross.  All 
her  tenderness,  human  and  religious,  was  hi  her 
action.  When  she  took  into  her  arms  the  youngest 
of  her  daughters — Pascale — she  held  her,  unable 
to  let  her  go,  or  to  say  any  more  than  those  weep- 
ing words: 

"0  dearest!    0  dearest!" 

Then  she  turned  towards  the  house,  and 
Sister  Leonide  followed  her;  for  the  last  time  the 
night  bell  was  to  be  rung.  The  three  others 
lingered.  The  grave,  the  wise  Danielle  took  by 
the  arm  the  youngest  of  the  Sisters. 

"I  loved  you  dearly,  dearly.  I  shall  love 
you  in  my  prayers.  I  should  never  have  told 
you,  if  the  end  of  our  life  together  had  not 
come.  Good-bye,  little  Pascale.  Keep  yourself 
for  God." 

She  pressed  the  arm  of  the  young  Sister,  who 
was  weeping,  and  who  answered  in  broken  phrases: 

"And  I — I  always  had  a  great  affection,  a  great 
admiration — I  shall  never  hear  your  name  without 
finding  it  a  support  to  my  weakness.  I  shall  never 
think  of  you  without  feeling  a  better  woman — 
because  of  the  example 

But  already  the  slender  figure  had  withdrawn; 
that  soul  of  sacrifice  denied  itself  a  useless  emo- 
tion; she  went  away,  leaving  the  young  Sister, 
whom  another  joined.  This  was  one  who  was 
not  quite  able  to  restrain  her  tears,  one  of  less 
iron  courage,  one  who  had  never  ceased,  for  two 


134  THE  NUN 

and  a  half  years  past,  to  show  Pascale  how  much 
she  loved  her. 

"If  we  are  not  too  poor,  and  I  should  ever  be 
able  to  call  you  near  me,  I  will  send  for  you," 
said  Sister  Edwige. 

"You  are  uneasy  about  me?" 

"Ah,  yes,  I  am  uneasy,"  said  Edwige's  touching 
voice. 

"Don't  be  too  anxious.  I  shall  be  all  right— 
I  hope,  I  hope — 

"Not  as  you  are  here." 

"But  where  should  I  ever  be  as  I  am  here?  I 
am  very  unhappy.  I  had  all  my  peace  at  Saint 
Hildegarde's  because  I  always  said  to  myself, 
'It  is  for  life!'  And  now,  and  now 

The  bell  rang,  and  the  two  young  figures, 
drooping,  passed  into  the  house,  apart,  speaking  no 
more  to  one  another,  their  feet  effacing  the  foot- 
steps of  their  children. 

The  night  came,  and  she  who  for  five-and- 
twenty  years  had  directed  the  Sisters,  the  classes, 
the  children,  the  former  pupils,  and  the  many 
clients  of  the  school  and  the  convent,  withdrew  to 
her  cell — a  servant's  garret,  furnished  with  a  small 
bed,  two  chairs,  and  a  black  table.  At  more  than 
sixty  years  of  age  she  was  to  leave — no  doubt  for 
ever — the  scene  of  her  long  and  willing  sacrifice. 
Before  she  unpinned  her  veil,  she  stood  before  her 
plaster  crucifix  and  examined  herself. 

"Have  I  allowed  the  Rule  of  our  Order  to  grow 
lax,  to  grow  stale?  Have  I  lessened  the  time  of 
prayer?  Lengthened  the  time  of  leisure?  Broken 
without  strict  necessity  the  evening  and  the  morn- 


THE  NUN  135 

ing  silence?  No,  I  believe  in  my  conscience,  I 
have  done  none  of  these  things.  Have  I  held  the 
balance  of  my  soul  level  amongst  my  Sisters,  and 
amongst  my  children?  My  God,  I  remember  the 
dead  I  have  loved,  I  know  the  living  I  love.  And 
surely  I  have  felt  attractions  and  affections,  and 
particular  sympathies.  But  where  this  personal 
love  was  not,  Thou,  0  Lord,  hast  put  charity  into 
my  heart  in  its  place.  I  think  I  was  not  unjust. 
I  have  been  disgusted  by  hypocrisies,  by  dirt,  by 
evil  odours,  by  the  insistent  claims  of  poverty; 
perhaps  I  have  shown  my  loathing. 

"Have  I  safeguarded  the  virgins  entrusted  to 
my  fostering  care,  and  to  the  shelter  of  this  Order? 
Well,  there  is  Sister  Leonide,  who  runs  about  the 
town  at  her  work.  There  is  Sister  Danielle,  who 
has  often  visited  with  me  the  houses  of  the  poor. 
These  two  might  walk  through  fire  unsinged. 
The  other  two  have  known  here  nothing  of  the 
world  except  the  children,  and  the  wind  that  blows 
in  at  the  doors.  Their  eyes  are  frank,  their  gaiety 
is  innocent  and  young.  Even  Sister  Danielle  is 
a  joyous  creature,  and  if  she  does  not  speak  of 
her  joy,  she  cherishes  it  in  silence.  Even  Pascale, 
who  is  steadfast  only  because  she  is  propped  and 
stayed  by  others,  has  had  a  free  spirit  and  a  light 
heart.  She  has  been  happy,  I  think,  until  these 
last  days.  Many  of  my  daughters  have  kept  the 
absolute  sinlessness  of  their  baptism,  and  carried 
it  to  the  grave.  As  for  me,  I  am  old,  I  have  never 
been  afraid  of  plain  speaking,  and  I  have  had  the 
grace  to  forget  nearly  all  the  evil  I  have  seen,  in 
the  hard  work  of  trying  to  put  it  right.  My 


136  THE  NUN 

Sisters  have  had  the  safety  of  this  enclosure,  of 
perpetual  occupation,  of  their  fatigue  with  tire- 
some children,  of  the  Rule,  of  their  prayers,  of 
my  constant  maternal  presence ;  above  all,  of  the 
continual  sense  of  Thy  Presence,  my  God. 

"Have  I  failed  in  my  duty  as  a  teacher?  I 
have  had  my  pride — my  vanity — in  the  examina- 
tions. I  have  been  keen  about  certificates,  and 
well-written  pages,  and  exercises  without  a 
mistake,  and  correct  answers.  It  is  possible  that 
my  little  girls  thought  these  things  more  important 
than  they  are.  There  was  nothing  important  but 
Thou  alone.  It  is  of  Thee  they  will  have  need,  hi 
their  homes,  in  their  griefs,  and  in  their  death. 
Ah,  I  fear  I  did  not  show  plainly  that  I  was  first 
of  all  a  teacher  of  divine  things.  My  little  girls 
have  so  much  need  of  Thee.  They  die  so  young — 
often  of  the  second  child ;  and  after  they  have  left 
school  they  seldom  hear  a  word  to  lift  them  up  or 
strengthen  their  souls.  They  have  so  much  good- 
will, such  a  secret  sense  of  honour,  so  much  love 
of  God  hidden  away — it  comes  out  now  and  then, 
they  remember  their  home  here,  and  all  they  were 
taught  that  was  good;  they  are  loyal  at  heart. 
What,  what  will  become  of  me?  If  I  am  to 
teach,  I  shall  certainly  have  less  human  vanity 
about  it.  I  entreat  Thy  pardon.  It  is  so  difficult 
not  to  have  preferences  for  people.  I  shall  try 
to  do  better." 

She  interrupted  her  simple  prayer. 

"Twenty-five  years,"  she  said.  "I  thought 
I  should  die  here.  I  have  examined  myself.  I 
have  found  human  weakness,  but  my  God  has 


THE  NUN  137 

not  been  offended.  This  is  only  a  trial,  and  I 
accept  it." 

At  a  few  minutes  before  nine,  Sister  Pascale 
and  Sister  Edwige,  standing  on  ladders,  hammer 
in  hand,  were  fastening  up  the  long  green  wreaths, 
giving  symmetry  to  arches  and  festoons,  replacing 
fallen  paper  roses.  The  last  nail  driven  in,  they 
came  down.  Three  little  girls  of  some  twelve 
years  old — two  poor,  spare  figures  and  one  fat — 
were  sent  to  open  the  doors.  And  at  once  began 
the  sound  of  shuffling  feet  and  of  voices  in  every 
tone  of  excitement:  "Don't  push  so!"  "Take 
care  of  your  dress — you  are  tearing  it."  "Where 
is  the  hurry — what  are  you  crowding  for?" 
"What  a  lot  of  wreaths!  And  such  nice  box — 
I  should  never  have  the  patience."  "What 
about  the  prizes?  Are  you  going  to  have  one? 
Well,  not  a  very  big  one?"  "Go  up,  there's 
your  place.  Don't  you  see  Sister  Pascale?  She 
beckoned  to  you." 

Sister  Pascale  stood  on  the  right  of  the  platform 
with  the  prizes — books,  bound  in  red,  blue,  and 
gold — on  a  table  at  her  side.  The  older  girls 
were  to  be  on  the  left.  Families  and  friends  sat 
together,  and  all  talked.  Mothers,  grandmothers, 
grown-up  sisters,  aunts,  great-aunts,  neighbours, 
and  even — notwithstanding  that  is  was  Friday — 
two  or  three  men  filled  the  seats  within  a  few 
minutes.  The  school-children  left  their  family 
groups,  and  the  sound  of  kisses  was  audible  among 
other  noises,  and  wishes  of  "Good  luck!"  But 
among  the  crowd  some  were  attentive  and  obser- 
vant; a  rumour  had  reached  them.  "They  say 


138  THE  NUN 

something  has  happened.  Have  you  heard  any- 
thing about  the  school?"  "Why,  no."  "It 
would  be  a  pity."  "Just  look  at  Sister  Pascale 's 
face — there,  at  the  end,  where  the  little  ones  are 
sitting."  "She  got  quite  red.  Who  was  it 
spoke  to  her?"  "The  little  Burel  girl— no, 
Aurelia  Dubrugeot,  and  she  brought  her  a  pres- 
ent." "What  was  it — a  cushion?"  "No,  some- 
thing that  opened ;  it  looks  like  a  valise."  "Is  it 
true,  Mere  Chupin,  that  the  Sisters  are  going?" 
"No,  my  good  man;  they  say  so,  just  to  get  up  a 
feeling  against  the  Government."  "All  the  same, 
Sister  Pascale  looks  very  unhappy.  Poor  little 
Sister  Pascale!  There's  a  soft  heart  for  you!" 
"Look,  now  she  has  put  the  valise  in  a  corner  with 
a  cover  over  it.  Aurelia  is  crying.  If  you  ask  me, 
I  don't  believe  the  Sisters  are  going  to  be  turned 
out  at  all.  What  should  they  be  turned  out  for?" 
The  man  who  had  spoken,  Goubaud  by  name, 
kept  a  wooden  face,  with  bent  brows,  and  a  hand 
twisting  his  beard.  He  looked  steadily  towards 
the  corner  to  the  right,  where  Sister  Pascale  was 
ranging  thirty  little  heads,  dark  and  fair,  and 
drawing  her  hands  from  the  clasp  of  the  children 
trying  to  kiss  them. 

"Don't  go,  don't  go  away,  Sister,  little  Sister." 
The  golden  eyes,  the  tender  eyes  of  Pascale 
were  wet  with  tears.  It  was  true  that  Aurelia 
had  brought  a  box — a  card-board  box  covered 
with  American  cloth,  for  which  her  family  had 
no  use.  Another,  a  pale  child  of  six,  who  had 
one  blind,  blank  eye,  and  one  as  blue  as  heaven, 
came  up  with  her  two  hands  concealing  some- 


THE  NUN  139 

thing  precious.  She  called  louder  than  the  rest, 
"Here,  Sister  Pascale,  I  brought  this  for  you.  I 
took  it  off  the  mantelpiece."  Sister  Pascale  put 
out  her  hand,  and  the  beaming  child  laid  in  it  a 
pink  shell  with  many  spikes.  "It's  for  you, 
because  I  like  you."  She  too  knew  of  the  parting 
at  hand;  she  too  had  heard.  Others  laughed. 
Goubaud  said  to  those  about  him:  "We  shall 
know  in  a  moment.  There's  the  Superior.  She, 
at  any  rate,  doesn't  look  unhappy.  But  she  never 
does,  and  looks  don't  count.  She  is  the  stout 
one." 

"She  hasn't  got  stout  by  taking  care  of  her- 
self," said  his  neighbour,  who  missed  his  meaning. 
"It's  not  fat,  Pere  Goubaud,  it's  her  age."  The 
speaker  was  sixty,  but  she  had  "kept  her  figure," 
inasmuch  as  she  was  as  flat  as  a  board  and 
looked  like  a  weasel.  "Why,  there's  none  of  the 
clergy  on  the  platform.  That  never  happened 
before." 

There  was  no  priest.  Sister  Justine,  with  a 
mighty  effort,  mounted  that  eminence.  The 
audience  coughed,  and  some  chairs  scraped. 
Sister  Danielle,  pale,  and  looking  like  Justice 
appearing  among  men,  entered  and  sat  straight 
against  the  wall;  the  Superior,  much  eclipsed 
by  the  tables  and  the  prizes,  raised  her  hand  to 
speak;  Sister  Pascale  quelled  the  last  two  or 
three  little  girls  clinging  to  her  skirt;  Sister 
Edwige,  slender,  sad,  graceful,  obviously  a  lady 
hi  spite  of  her  self-abasements,  moved  up  from 
her  work  of  arranging  places,  took  her  stand  to 
the  left  of  the  platform,  and  pulled  from  her 


140  THE  NUN 

pocket  a  paper  covered  with  admirable  copper- 
plate writing — the  prize-list,  a  single  copy.  Sister 
Leonide  was  probably  nailing  up  boxes  or  closing 
doors,  and  was  not  to  be  seen. 

"I  wish  to  explain  to  the  parents  of  pupils," 
said  Sister  Justine,  whose  authoritative  voice 
imposed  silence,  "that  it  is  not  by  our  own  wish 
that  we  have  changed  the  date  of  breaking-up. 
The  exhibition  to-day  will  not  be  as  formal  as 
usual.  We  shall  have  no  singing.  We  are  very 
sorry  to  have  to  send  home  your  children  so  soon ; 
but  we  were  requested  to  do  so,  on  account  of 
circumstances- 
There  was  an  interruption.  Some  irrepressible 
voices  called,  "They  are  evicting  you.  You  may 
as  well  tell  us." 

"Be  quiet,  Goubaud,  can't  you?" 

"Of  course  they  are  not  going  at  all." 

"I  tell  you  they  are." 

"Do  listen  to  the  Sister;  she  can't  speak  with 
the  noise." 

"You  are  an  ignorant  man,  and  no  mistake!" 

Sister  Justine  imposed  silence  again. 

"No  noise!"  she  cried.  "All  who  are  our 
friends  will  listen  quietly  to  the  reading  of  the 
prize-list,  and  will  then  go  home.  As  for  us,  I  am 
glad  to  think  that  we  have  done  our  best  to 
serve  you." 

"That  you  have,  Sister." 

"Then  you  are  really  going?" 

"No,  can't  you  understand?" 

"Hush!    Silence!" 

Children  were  crying  aloud. 


THE  NUN  141 

"Read  the  prize-list,  Sister  Edwige,"  said  the 
Superior. 

They  were  as  silent  as  though  called  upon  to 
listen  to  soft  music.  The  music  was  the  voice  of 
Edwige  reading  out  the  names.  And  they  were 
silent  also  as  the  prize-winners,  by  threes  and 
fours,  rose  and  went  forward  to  receive  a  book, 
or  a  green  paper  wreath,  and  left  little  trails  of 
excitement  behind  them  in  the  crowd. 

This  lasted  until  half-past  eleven.  Then  the 
deafening  noise  of  talk  and  movement  arose  again 
into  the  atmosphere,  now  close  and  heavy  with 
the  odours  of  poverty.  The  people  were  going; 
they  had  paid  their  last  visit  to  the  school;  the 
district  was  gathering  back  its  little  girls.  No 
doubt  these  people  did  not  forget  the  Sisters ;  but 
the  haste  of  departure,  the  crowd,  the  desire  for 
fresh  air,  the  attraction  of  the  street,  the  thought 
of  the  wine-shop,  the  mere  example  of  the  rest — 
all  these  poor  trivial  motives,  with  the  addition  of 
their  shyness  and  their  awkward  lack  of  all  in- 
itiative, left  very  few  indeed  to  take  leave  of  the 
school-mistresses  where  they  stood  close  to  the 
platform,  in  a  little  group  of  the  children  that  were 
the  most  affectionate,  the  vainest  of  their  prizes, 
or  the  most  forlorn  and  friendless  of  the  school. 

"Good-bye — au  revoir — Sister  Justine,  Sister 
Danielle,  Sister  Edwige,  Sister  Pascale." 

The  nuns  bent  to  kiss  the  children,  pressed 
the  hands  of  the  few  mothers,  made  vague  replies 
to  embarrassing  questions.  And  soon  they  were 
alone.  Mechanically  they  had  retreated  to  the 
wall,  and  it  propped  their  weary  figures;  they 


142  THE  NUN 

stood  there  motionless  with  idle  hands,  released 
from  the  necessity  of  the  ceremonial  smile,  and 
watching  the  backs  of  fathers,  mothers,  relatives, 
and  little  girls  of  all  sizes,  going  away  for  ever: 
their  friends  going  away,  the  clients  of  their  char- 
ity, who  had  needed  them,  to  whom  they  had 
ministered — their  only  treasure,  their  only  riches. 
They  knew  many  of  those  backs  by  the  clothes 
that  the  wearers  never  changed.  Each  Sister  felt 
the  cruel  price  at  which  human  gratitude  is  won; 
so  much  patience,  so  much  self-forgetfulness,  so 
much  persevering  effort,  in  the  differing  cases  of 
so  many  children,  to  buy  a  kiss,  a  softened  manner, 
a  friendly  thought,  from  but  one  of  those  who 
were  going  by  threes  and  fours  along  the  school 
corridor  and  out  of  a  door  they  would  never  cross 
again.  There,  before  their  eyes,  their  work  was 
falling  to  pieces. 

A  slight  caress  drew  Pascale  from  that  sorrow- 
ful vision.  Close  to  the  platform  the  young  par- 
entless  child  who  had  one  dead  eye  was  still  stand- 
ing. There  had  been  no  one  to  beckon  her  out, 
and  she  lurked  near  those  who  had  been  kind  to 
her.  Guessing  them  to  be  unhappy,  seeing  them 
silent  and  motionless,  she  stroked  with  her  little 
fingers  the  hanging  hand  of  Pascale. 

"It  is  Marie,"  said  the  young  Sister.  "If  I 
could  only  take  her  with  me!" 

The  child  was  clasped  in  the  arms  of  them  all, 
and  then  she  went  alone,  with  the  noise  of  her 
wooden  shoes,  looking  back  at  intervals,  as  though 
to  say,  "I  can  see  you  still."  The  door  closed 
behind  her,  and  she  was  the  last. 


THE  NUN  143 

"The  time  is  very  near,"  said  Sister  Justine. 

They  listened  for  the  coming  of  the  police. 
Sister  Danielle,  deeply  troubled,  had  run  to  the 
parlour,  to  the  surprise  of  her  companions,  and 
looking  through  the  window  which  opened  on 
the  place,  cried  to  the  others: 

"  There  is  hardly  anyone  outside  now — they 
are  gone  home  to  dinner." 

"The  nuns  had  been  at  a  loss  how  to  pass  the 
last  hour  or  two  hours  remaining  to  them,  for  all 
their  tasks  were  finished  and  their  duties  fulfilled. 
Danielle's  last  word  reminded  them  that  they  had 
taken  nothing  but  coffee  that  day. 

"We  cannot  afford  to  lunch  in  town,"  said 
Sister  Justine. 

"Have  we  anything  in  the  house,  Sister  Leon- 
ide?  Where  are  you,  Sister?" 

The  portress  appeared. 

"We  have  some  bread,  Mother,  and  a  half- 
bottle  of  wine." 

"We  will  take  our  last  meal  here  then,"  said 
the  Superior,  and  she  made  once  more  the  gesture 
habitual  to  her,  half  opening  her  arms  to  marshal 
these  daughters  of  hers.  Sister  Leonide  had 
already  left  the  room,  in  order  to  set  the  table  in 
the  little  refectory  leading  out  of  the  long  hall, 
where  these  poor  nuns  were  accustomed  during 
the  winter — and  often  during  the  summer  as  well 
—to  feed  children  who  lived  at  a  distance  or  were 
in  want.  Now,  seated  about  the  round  table, 
the  Sisters  ate  their  bread  and  drank  a  little  wine 
and  water.  They  were  more  at  ease,  and  were 
able  to  speak  without  allusion  to  what  was  about 


144  THE  NUN 

to  befall  them.  All  was  virtually  over  for  them, 
since  they  had  suffered  the  separation  from  their 
girls  and  their  girls'  mothers.  When  the  meal 
was  finished  they  sat  on,  except  Sister  Le'onide, 
who  began  to  clear  the  table.  At  that  moment 
there  was  the  sound  of  the  bell.  Sister  Justine 
rose,  very  pale,  and  gave  the  order  to  the  others 
to  follow  her.  She  threaded  the  corridor,  and 
with  a  firm  hand  opened  the  door  of  the  school 
and  convent. 

Two  men  saluted,  the  one  by  lifting  his  bowler 
hat  with  a  bow,  having  an  obvious  desire  to  bear 
himself  correctly;  the  other  by  a  mere  nod  of  a 
bilious  and  sinister  head.  These  were  the  com- 
missary of  the  police  and  his  clerk.  Sister  Justine 
drew  back. 

"You  will  allow  me  to  come  in?"  asked  the 
commissary,  upright  in  his  frock-coat.  He  entered 
without  awaiting  her  answer,  pushing  one  shoul- 
der forward,  on  account  of  the  vast  amplitude  of 
his  bust.  He  did  not  wish  to  come  to  an  explana- 
tion at  the  door,  where  passers-by  might  be  at- 
tracted, for  a  group  or  two  were  gathering.  His 
clerk  slipped  in  behind  him. 

"You  are  now  in  the  house  belonging  to  two 
Sisters  of  Clermont-Ferrand,"  said  the  Superior. 
"You  have  come  to  take  their  property  from 
them." 

"As  I  told  you  before,  that  is  not  my  business." 

"In  their  name,  sir,  I  protest." 

"But  you  will  cut  your  protest  short,  I  hope," 
said  the  man,  who  had  done  the  same  work  before. 
Sister  Justine  silenced  him  with  a  gesture. 


THE  NUN  145 

"I  shall  not  make  a  speech,"  she  said,  "but 
I  shall  tell  you,  and  you  may  repeat  it,  that  you 
are  doing  three  illegal  acts ;  one,  in  the  destruction 
of  my  school,  which  was  a  school  for  the  poor; 
another,  in  the  seizure  of  our  property;  and  a 
third  in  expelling  us  from  the  place  where  we  have 
a  right  to  live.  And  now  you  can  carry  out  the 
eviction." 

The  commissary  expressed  annoyance. 

"I  would  rather  you  did  not  compel  me  to 
make  this  absurd  pretence  of  violence." 

"I  would  rather  you  made  it.  I  shall  not  yield 
without  it." 

"As  you  like." 

Sister  Justine  turned  her  head. 

"Are  you  there,  Sisters?  Where  is  Sister  Leon- 
ide  again?"  She  called  her,  and  Sister  Le"onide 
ran  down  the  corridor,  breathless,  arranging  her 
veil  and  her  sleeves  as  she  went. 

"What  were  you  doing?"  asked  the  Superior. 

"Mother,  I  was  sweeping  out  the  classroom." 

She  took  her  place  by  Sister  Pascale. 

"Do  what  you  have  to  do,"  said  the  Superior 
to  the  representative  of  the  law.  With  a  little 
genuine  shyness  he  laid  his  hand  on  the  black 
veil  covering  the  shoulder  of  Sister  Justine,  and 
with  that  hand  upon  her  she  went  down  the 
steps,  her  daughters  following. 

A  group  of  people,  who  had  suspected  or  had 
heard  more  than  the  rest,  lingered  at  a  distance 
from  the  convent  door,  near  the  church.  They 
were  not  more  than  thirty,  parents  and  children. 
The  presence  of  the  police  had  also  caught  the 


146  THE  NUN 

attention  of  some  few  passers-by.  When  the  five 
Sisters  appeared  there  was  a  movement  of  intense 
surprise.  No  one  had  quite  expected  that  sight, 
or  had  expected  to  see  it  at  that  moment.  A 
woman's  voice  was  raised: 

"Vivent  les  Sceurs!" 

Then  every  living  creature  within  reach  began 
to  run.  Police  agents  appeared,  to  right,  to  left, 
at  the  corners  of  the  streets. 

"Take  your  hand  away  now,"  commanded 
the  Superior. 

The  commissary  obeyed  the  order,  and  went 
up  the  steps  again.  From  the  threshold  he 
glanced  at  the  gathering  crowd,  heard  the  signal 
of  a  whistle,  and  cried  out : 

"No  disturbance!  I  shall  arrest  the  first 
person  who  attempts  to  make  a  demonstration. 
And  you,  nuns,  out  with  you!" 

He  went  in,  closed  the  door  in  which  was  the 
little  window  wherethrough  Sister  Leonide  was 
wont  to  parley  with  visitors  before  admitting 
them,  and  thence  he  looked  on.  The  five  women 
in  their  blue  gowns  were  in  the  midst  of  a  small 
crowd;  their  hands  were  sought;  they  heard 
eager  voices:  "Come  to  us,  come  to  us!" 

Sister  Justine  made  a  path  with  her  resolute 
hands.  "Let  us  pass,  good  friends,"  she  said. 
A  voice  cried  "Vive  la  liberte!"  but  found  no 
echo  to  the  ambiguous  words.  The  police  agents 
were  rough  with  the  women,  and  rated  her  who 
had  acclaimed  the  Sisters. 

"Thank  you,  Louise  Casale,  thank  you,  my 
little  girl,"  said  the  Superior,  recognising  her. 


THE  NUN  147 

A  few  men  near  a  tree  were  hooting  "Down  with 
the  priests!"  Sister  Justine  moved  on.  Close 
behind  her  walked  Danielle,  her  eyes  on  a  level 
with  the  men's,  her  hands  folded,  a  storm  within. 
Then  came  Sister  Edwige,  blushing  very  red  at 
the  embarrassment  of  this  public  appearance; 
her  eyes  were  down,  and  she  caught  her  hands 
shyly  away  from  the  kisses  and  tears  of  the  chil- 
dren. Sister  Pascale  followed,  smiling  at  friends 
she  spied,  excited  and  a  little  frightened;  and  at 
her  side,  holding  her  arm,  Sister  Leonide,  as  calm 
as  though  she  had  been  about  her  marketing. 
The  group  crossed  the  place,  and  the  police,  seeing 
that  something  like  a  crowd  was  gathering,  and 
that  a  demonstration  threatened  in  the  wide 
street  leading  to  the  station,  charged  the  women 
and  children  and  scattered  them.  A  brigadier 
called  to  Sister  Justine:  " Divide!  Three  of  you 
by  the  Cours  Charlemagne.  Two  this  way.  You 
can  meet  later  on."  He  pushed  Pascale  and 
Leonide  towards  the  quay.  There  were  no 
more  attempts  at  protestation.  One  or  two 
women  and  children  evaded  the  bar  of  the  police 
and  caught  up  the  three  nuns  on  the  way  to 
Perrache.  A  few  distant  voices  cheered  them; 
counter  cheers  replied.  Then  silence  showed  that 
the  triumph  of  ' '  law  "  was  complete.  A  few  of  the 
poorest  women  were  weeping  as  they  went  home. 

The  Community  met  again  half-an-hour  later 
at  the  door  of  an  old  house  in  the  Rue  de  la 
Charite. 

"  Madame  Bormenat — which  floor?"  asked 
Sister  Justine. 


148  THE  NUN 

Directed  to  the  second  storey,  the  Sisters 
awaited  there  the  coming  of  a  maid,  who  evi- 
dently expected  them. 

"Come  in,"  she  said,  "poor  dear  Sisters. 
Madame  will  be  here  in  a  moment." 

As  she  spoke,  she  pushed  open  a  tall  oak  door 
turning  on  copper  hinges,  and  led  into  a  long 
room  panelled  with  oak.  Horse-hair-covered 
chairs  stood,  regularly  spaced  apart,  down  both 
walls;  two  high  windows,  looking  into  a  court- 
yard, let  in  two  long  lines  of  light.  It  was  an 
old-fashioned  Lyons  dining-room. 

The  five  Sisters  stood  together  midway.  They 
might  have  taken  the  austere-looking  place  for 
a  richer  kind  of  convent.  Through  the  opposite 
door  now  entered  an  old  lady  of  middle  height, 
slender,  shortsighted,  and  much  resembling  the 
elder  wax  heads  in  a  hair-dresser's  window;  so 
smooth  were  her  bands  of  hair,  so  regular  her 
small  features,  touched  with  a  still  lively  pink, 
and  un wrinkled,  so  equal  and  steady  her  smile. 

"Good  morning,  my  poor  Sisters!  You  have 
come  to  the  wardrobe  of  secularised  nuns?  Were 
you  very  roughly  treated  in  your  expulsion?" 

"No,  Madame,"  replied  Sister  Justine;  "but 
all  the  same,  our  lives  are  destroyed.  That  is  the 
violence  we  feel." 

"A  martyrdom,  Sisters." 

"Yes,  indeed,  a  martyrdom." 

"Now,  let  us  see  your  heights,"  said  Madame 
Bormenat  without  further  preparation.  "One 
tall" — measuring  Sister  Danielle  with  her  eye— 
"four  medium.  This  is  Sister  Pascale,  is  it  not? 


THE  NUN  149 

My  poor  little  Sister,  you  have  a  very  slight  figure, 
I  should  think.  I  happen  to  have  the  mourning 
costume  of  a  young  girl,  a  friend  of  ours."  She 
played  the  shopwoman  with  the  ease  and  quiet  of 
a  lady.  Opening  two  closets  in  the  panels,  whence 
an  odor  of  naphthaline  escaped,  she  unhooked, 
and  laid  upon  the  nearer  chairs,  five  skirts,  five 
bodices,  five  black  mantles,  recalling  the  fashions 
of  the  last  three  years,  more  or  less;  a  slight  at- 
tempt had  been  made  to  retouch  the  sleeves  and 
collars. 

None  of  the  Sisters  had  as  yet  begun  to  disrobe. 
They  looked  at  these  secular  garments  and  re- 
membered the  moving  ceremony  of  their  religious 
"clothing"  on  the  long-anticipated  day  when 
they  had  received  that  pure  raiment,  every  part 
of  which  is  a  symbol,  the  sign  of  a  spiritual  grace, 
and  blessed  by  a  separate  liturgical  prayer.  Now 
they  were  to  put  off  the  dear  and  sacred  dress. 

Sister  Justine,  with  a  turn  of  her  eyes,  with  a 
motion  of  her  chin,  sent  each  of  the  four  to  her 
place,  and  their  pale  faces  expressed  the  pain  of 
this  last  obedience.  They  raised  their  hands  to 
unpin  their  veils  and  frontlets,  and  to  unfasten 
the  homespun  dresses,  which  fell  to  their  feet. 
In  the  place  of  four  nuns,  whose  aspect,  as  they 
threaded  the  streets,  had  been  met  with  a  sign  of 
respect  or  a  look  of  hatred,  stood  four  despoiled 
women  in  high-necked  chemises  and  gray  woollen 
petticoats,  with  their  hair — white,  brown,  and 
golden — cut  straight  along  the  back  of  the  neck, 
like  that  of  sixteenth-century  pages,  and  hanging 
from  the  head — old  or  young — somewhat  in  the 


150  THE  NUN 

shape  of  a  bell.  The  maid,  who  had  done  the 
same  office  before  more  than  once,  went  from  one 
to  the  other,  measuring  a  skirt,  trying  on  a  bodice, 
putting  in  a  stitch,  opening  a  seam,  moving  a 
hook,  and  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour  the  lamentable 
transformation  was  complete.  By  means  of 
hairpins  and  black  ribbon,  the  unmanageable 
short  hair  had  been  put  up,  and  had  been  hidden 
under  shabby  mourning  or  half-mourning  hats. 
Sister  Justine,  her  shoulders  covered,  in  spite  of 
the  season,  with  a  cloak,  stood  looking  at  her  four 
daughters  as  they  came  one  by  one  before  the 
long  mirror:  Sister  Danielle,  in  her  distress  like  a 
newly  made  widow;  Sister  Edwige  very  shy  and 
deeply  humiliated;  Sister  Leonide  saying,  "I 
look  like  a  second-hand  clothes  dealer.  I  am  cer- 
tainly pretty  ugly,  but  then  I've  not  seen  myself 
in  a  glass  for  a  very  long  time — perhaps  that's 
why  I  notice  it  so."  And  even  there  she  laughed. 
Sister  Pascale  allowed  the  maid  to  fasten  her 
hair,  while  Madame  Bormenat  with  her  own  hands 
tried  to  tie  up  the  thin  white  locks  of  the  Superior, 
who,  inattentive  to  her  own  case,  silent  and  full  of 
thoughts  she  could  not  express,  fixed  her  sad  eyes 
upon  the  mutilated  but  still  lovely  hair  of  the 
child  of  Adolphe  Mouvand.  Did  she  foresee  how 
it  would  look  anon,  when  it  would  be  grown  again, 
when  its  exquisite  straw-colour  would  be  gilded 
by  the  sun  in  a  ruffling  wind?  Did  she  even  now 
admire,  with  a  pang,  in  a  lady's  street  costume 
this  child  of  her  heart?  Sister  Pascale  returned 
her  look  with  an  affectionate  smile  that  seemed  to 
say:  "What  a  figure  they  are  making  of  your  little 


THE  NUN  151 

girl!  I  don't  look  as  miserable  as  Sister  Danielle, 
but  I  am  the  most  unhappy  of  all  at  heart ;  I  am 
the  feeble  one,  and  you  all  propped  me  up." 
Had  Sister  Justine  lost  heart,  that  she  was  unable 
to  bear  the  sting  of  that  poor  smile?  She  sprang 
from  the  hands  that  were  busy  at  her  gray  head, 
and,  with  one  thin  wisp  of  hair  tied  by  black 
string  on  the  top  and  another  fallen  on  her  ear, 
she  went,  her  face  drawn  by  grief,  to  :the  young 
girl. 

"My  little  Sister,"  she  said,  "wear  that  quiet 
black  dress  as  long  as  you  possibly  can."  Doubt- 
less her  painful  thoughts  continued,  for  she 
added:  "Why  did  I  ever  consent  to  be  parted 
from  you?  .  .  .  But  come,  my  child,  put  on 
your  hat.  We  are  the  last." 

There  remained  a  black  straw  hat,  decorated 
with  a  little  wreath  of  muslin  daisies  that  were 
crumpled  and  bent  upon  their  stalks,  and  a  black 
tulle  bonnet  composed  of  ruches,  flattened  and 
rusty. 

"Here,  Sister  Pascale,"  said  the  Superior, 
"the  bonnet  is  for  you."  Sister  Pascale  at  once 
took  up  the  dingy  mass. 

"Why,  Madame,"  said  Madame  Bormenat, 
"you  are  not  going  to  wear  a  hat  with  flowers? 
It  would  be  ridiculous!" 

"Less  ridiculous  than  you  think,"  said  Sister 
Justine,  putting  resolutely  on  her  bare  white 
head  the  little  round  hat  with  the  drooping 
daisies.  She  would  assuredly  be  an  absurd  figure 
in  the  street ;  what  cared  she?  She  had  her  usual 
simple  and  easy  manner,  her  usual  unembarrassed 


152  THE  NUN 

tone,  as  she  returned  her  own  thanks  and  those  of 
her  community  to  the  lady  presiding  over  the 
" wardrobe  of  laicised  nuns" — an  acknowledged 
private  charitable  institution.  The  aged  lady 
bowed  in  reply  with  a  reserved,  compassionate 
smile,  and  watched  the  five  women — the  five  de- 
poetised  women — as  they  went  down  the  stair. 
They  went,  no  longer  guarded,  no  longer  defended 
against  the  world,  by  the  veil,  the  hair-concealing 
linen,  the  rosary,  signs  in  all  men's  sight  of  their 
consecration.  Two  of  them  carried,  rolled  up  in 
bundles,  their  religious  dress — Sister  Leonide 
and  Sister  Danielle.  The  others  were  too  uncer- 
tain of  their  journeys  so  to  burden  themselves; 
they  left  their  religious  habit  with  Madame 
Bormenat. 

They  left  the  house,  they  spoke  to  each  other 
no  more.  They  asked  at  the  station  for  the 
third-class  waiting  room.  A  corner  there  was 
vacant,  and  they  found  places  on  two  benches, 
sitting  as  much  together  as  they  could.  The 
Superior  had  Sister  Pascale  on  one  hand  and  Sister 
Leonide  on  the  other.  The  two  others  faced  them 
—the  two  unequal  groups  of  so  many  past  evenings 
in  the  playground. 

"My  dearest  ones,"  said  the  Superior,  "let  us 
end  with  what  will  be  all  our  strength  when  we 
are  apart.  We  will  say  the  rosary,  and  our 
prayer  shall  not  cease  until  I  am  alone." 

They  sought  their  beads  in  the  pockets  of  their 
lay  dresses.  The  murmur  of  the  Pater,  the  Ave, 
and  the  Gloria  was  hardly  audible  in  the  station 
sounds — the  whistle  of  an  engine,  the  roll  of  a 


THE  NUN  1S8 

train,  the  opening  of  doors,  and  the  hurrying  feet 
of  travellers.  No  one  noticed  the  women,  ill  and 
awkwardly  dressed  in  mourning,  leaning  together 
as  though  one  of  them  were  busily  telling  the 
story  of  a  recent  death.  It  was  so  in  truth.  Bene- 
dicta  tu  in  mulieribus — it  was  Sister  Danielle  who 
said  the  first  part  of  the  prayers,  and  the  others 
made  the  responses.  Now  and  then  one  of  them 
hid  her  tears  with  her  hand  and  fell  out  of  the 
ranks  of  prayer,  to  join  again  in  a  little  while. 

At  intervals  a  porter  came  to  the  door  to  call 
the  names  of  the  stations  for  which  a  train  was 
about  to  leave.  The  Sisters  trembled,  but  it  was 
not  yet  their  hour.  The  names  of  Macon,  Mar- 
seilles, Amberieu,  were  for  them  the  fatal  names, 
and  they  had  not  been  spoken.  There  was  a  little 
time  yet.  The  man  was  somewhat  like  the  mes- 
senger of  execution  to  prisoners  under  the  Terror. 
He  went  back  to  the  platform,  and  the  prayers 
were  resumed.  Sister  Pascale  led  the  second  ro- 
sary, and  her  frail  voice  had  so  weary  and  so  tragic 
a  tone  that  the  others  all  inwardly  offered  their 
prayers  for  that  dear  one.  Or  a  pro  nobis  pecca- 
toribus  nunc  et  in  hora  mortis  nostrae.  Thus  in  the 
noisy  and  dusty  waiting-room  the  Sisters  of  Saint 
Hildegarde  prayed  their  last  prayer  together  on 
earth.  ...  A  porter  cried,  "  Train  for  Ma- 
con."  And  two  of  the  five  stood  up,  Sister  Dan- 
ielle and  Sister  Edwige.  For  a  moment  they  hesi- 
tated— should  that  prayer  break  off  so  that  their 
farewells  might  be  spoken?  Not  so;  Sister  Jus- 
tine took  up  the  response  with  authoritative  em- 
phasis: Sancta  Maria,  Mater  Dei — and  they 


154  THE  NUN 

understood  that  this  was  to  be  the  one  word 
worthy  of  such  a  parting. 

The  two  who  were  going  bowed  to  the  three 
who  remained.  Sister  Pascale  closed  her  eyes, 
the  eyes  that  were  to  look  no  more  on  those  two 
pale  faces.  A  few  minutes,  and  in  the  midst  of 
another  prayer,  she  too  rose,  bowed,  and  went 
out  in  tears.  Two  voices  behind  her  faltered  but 
did  not  stop.  Anon  came  the  train  for  Geneva, 
and  Sister  Leonide  went  out  alone.  The  Superior 
was  left;  she  ended  the  Ave,  and  then  sat  silent 
while  her  companions  journeyed  away  into  the 
unknown. 


IV. 


THE   BEARERS   OF  PASCALE'S  BURDEN: 
JUSTINE. 

A  KEEN  autumn  wind  was  blowing  across  the 
glacis  of  fortifications,  the  chilly  fields,  a  pro- 
vincial town  with  its  factories  piled  close  to  the 
forts,  its  noisy  streets.  Evening  was  closing 
round,  and  it  was  already  dark  within  doors.  A 
few  minutes  earlier  a  sunset  light  had  illumined 
the  lion,  cut  in  the  rock,  of  the  citadel  of  Belfort. 

In  the  servants'  quarters  of  a  large,  unpre- 
tentious house  that  had  no  garden,  but  was  am- 
ply and  solidly  built,  and  was  the  dwelling  of  the 
General  Commandant,  an  old  butler  prepared  the 
silver  for  the  dinner-table.  Over  his  black  clothes 
he  had  knotted  an  apron,  and  as  he  turned  a 
severe  eye  upon  the  rows  of  spoons  and  forks,  a 
little  footman  with  a  yellow,  shaven  head  attended 
him  with  respect  and  fear.  At  another  side  table, 
an  irreverent  orderly,  in  shirt  sleeves  and  yellow 
waistcoat,  proud  of  his  waist  and  his  fair  mous- 
tache, was  arranging  the  dessert. 

"Five  and  twenty,"  said  the  old  man  to  the 
apprentice  footman — "a  large  dinner-party.  The 
Baron  is  entertaining  the  superior  officers.  You 
are  not  to  take  your  gloves  off  once." 

"No,  Monsieur  Francis." 

155 


156  THE  NUN 

"You  are  not  to  hand  the  dishes,  of  course- 
not  for  a  long  time  to  come.  You'll  only  have 
to  take  away  the  plates.  But  you  can  watch 
me  as  a  lesson." 

"Yes,  Monsieur  Francis." 

"He's  pretty  strict,  you  know — the  Baron." 

"Strict!"  cried  the  orderly  with  a  laugh. 
"Strict!  Why,  he's  afraid  of  everybody.  He's 
afraid  of  us." 

"He's  not  afraid  of  me,"  said  the  butler  qui- 
etly. "Let  me  go  on  telling  the  boy  what  he 
has  to  do.  You  haven't  to  answer  for  him,  and 
I  have." 

The  door  of  the  entrance-hall  was  opened. 
The  orderly  looked  over  his  shoulder.  "There's 
that  German  woman.  I  say,  don't  leave  that 
door  open — I  am  catching  cold." 

The  woman  did  not  heed  him.  She  was  un- 
fastening the  woollen  wrap  that  had  been  tied 
over  her  black  bonnet  and  her  face  reddened  by 
the  cold.  Behind  her  a  young  man,  painfully  thin 
and  pale,  whose  nervous  suffering  was  shown  in 
the  spasms  of  his  delicate  features,  answered  the 
orderly  angrily: 

"Hold  your  tongue,  Moriot.  She  is  ten  times 
more  French  than  you  are.  Never — these  are 
my  orders — never  again  dare  to  insult  this  lady, 
or  I  shall  tell  the  Commandant." 

The  soldier  had  turned  back  to  his  work,  and 
was  patting  into  shape  the  mossy  lining  of  a 
dessert  dish.  He  said  no  more,  but  expressed  his 
small  alarm  at  this  threat  by  a  movement  of 
his  eyebrows  and  of  his  smart  moustache.  The 


THE  NUN  157 

young  man,  seized  by  what  it  had  been  agreed 
to  call  a  fit  of  asthma,  had  thrown  himself  upon 
the  woman's  arm,  clinging  to  it  with  violence; 
after  three  or  four  dry  little  coughs,  he  passed 
a  few  haggard  moments  in  the  grasp  of  terror; 
evil,  horrible  evil,  was  upon  him,  his  open  mouth 
drew  in  no  air,  his  lungs  were  vacant,  close  to 
his  beating  heart.  The  old  woman,  accustomed 
to  the  care  of  his  disease,  held  up  his  head  ten- 
derly with  her  two  hands.  "Come,  my  little 
Guy,  it's  nothing.  You  will  be  all  right  in  a  min- 
ute.' '  The  fit  passed  off :  a  little  air  went  whistling 
into  the  boy's  chest,  terror  left  the  eyes,  the  mouth 
closed  and  smiled  a  little.  "I'm  better,"  he  said. 
"It's  gone.  But  wait ." 

The  door  into  the  billiard-room  opened  at  that 
moment,  and,  framed  against  the  lights  within, 
appeared  the  elegant  figure  of  a  woman  still 
young  in  shape  and  in  movement. 

"Is  that  you,  Madame  Justine?  Is  that  you, 
Guy?  I  was  getting  anxious.  How  is  it  you  are 
so  late?"  asked  Madame  de  Roinnet.  She  would 
not  confess  a  fear  that  was  not  of  the  late  hour 
only.  But  she  had  heard  the  cough.  "Where 
did  you  walk?" 

"On  the  glacis  of  the  Barres  fort,  as  we  gener- 
ally do,"  answered  the  old  woman.  "It  was 
almost  warm,  the  sun  was  out,  but  all  of  a  sudden 
the  wind  got  up,  and  we  made  haste  home.  Per- 
haps we  walked  a  little  too  fast." 

Madame  de  Roinnet  paid  small  attention. 
Question,  answer,  the  whole  situation,  were  but 
a  part  of  that  tragedy  of  her  maternity  which 


158  THE  NUN 

she  and  all  about  her  were  resolved  to  ignore. 
She  saw  her  son  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  room 
between  his  companion,  "Madame  Justine,"  and 
the  butler ;  she  saw  that  he  had  his  breath  again, 
but  she  heard  how  hard  he  drew  it  still. 

"You  had  better  go  to  your  room,  Guy,  and 
get  warm.  Go,  my  dear.  Madame  Justine,  will 
you  come  this  way?  I  want  to  speak  to  you." 

The  two  women  went  into  the  billiard-room, 
the  one  in  evening  dress,  the  other  in  a  plain 
black  gown,  worn  without  any  affectation  of 
singularity — such  a  dress  as  is  usual  with  elderly 
ladies  whose  appearance  is  neither  fashionable 
nor  conspicuously  unfashionable. 

"Madame  Justine,"  said  Madame  de  Roinnet, 
holding  on  one  side  her  pretty  head  with  its 
fair  hair  turning  grey  and  delicately  waved,  its 
still  firm  cheeks  and  youthful  blue  eyes;  "Mad- 
ame Justine,  I  have  not  had  a  place  laid  for 
Guy  at  table  to-night."  She  meant  "Nor  for 
you  either."  Justine  understood,  and  answered 
a  little  sadly:  "The  poor  boy  will  be  rather  disap- 
pointed. He  said  just  now  that  he  was  looking 
forward —  as  for  me,  you  know,  Madame,  I 
don't  care  a  bit.  I  am  even  better  pleased. 
Where  are  we  to  dine?" 

"Of  course  not  in  the  servants'  hall;  shall  it 
be  in  the  linen  room?  Only  there  is  a  difficulty 
about  the  waiting.  Francis  cannot  leave  the 
dining-room,  nor  can  the  orderly  very  well;  and 
Matilda " 

"Oh,  is  that  all,  Madame?  There  is  no  one 
to  wait  upon  us?" 


THE  NUN  159 

"  Well — no,  I  am  afraid  not." 

"I  can  very  well  wait  on  Monsieur  Guy  and 
myself.  In  our  convent  we  were  quite  used — I 
dined  every  day  at  the  same  table  as  our  cook. 
It  was  Sister  Leonide " 

Madame  de  Roinnet  went  towards  a  group  of 
candles  in  a  sconce,  and  held  her  face  turned  away, 
as  close  to  the  lights  as  though  she  sought  to  dry 
with  that  flame  the  tears  hanging  on  her  eyelashes 
which  she  would  not  wipe  away.  She  went  on 
with  her  inspection,  taking  her  train  in  one  hand, 
drawing  up  her  graceful  figure.  "I  am  obliged  to 
you,"  she  said,  "for  helping  me  as  you  always  do. 
Life  is  sometimes  so  difficult."  She  went  her  way 
into  the  dining-room. 

At  the  same  hour  at  the  Military  Club,  an  officer 
of  nervous  physique,  with  signs  of  race  in  face 
and  figure,  erect  in  his  uniform,  thin-faced,  grey- 
eyed,  with  hair  tufted  on  his  temples,  his  profile 
resembling  some  relief  of  a  mediaeval  Italian  war- 
rior traced  upon  the  pommel  of  a  sabre,  rose  from 
his  place,  where  he  had  sat  looking  through  the 
evening  papers,  and  approached  a  table  where 
another  officer  was  seated,  and,  saluting,  ad- 
dressed him.  The  man  to  whom  he  spoke  went 
on  with  his  occupation,  which  was  the  sinking 
of  a  slice  of  lemon  in  his  glass  of  punch.  He, 
too,  was  tall,  with  more  solid  features  and 
with  darker  eyes,  which  added  emphasis  to  his 
words:  a  man  of  firmer  and  steadier  type  than 
the  other. 

"I  shall  be  happy  to  be  with  you  shortly," 
he  said.  "  Madame  la  Baronne  de  Roinnet  is 


160  THE  NUN 

well,  I  hope?  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  her  this 
afternoon.  And  your  son,  how  is  he?" 

The  Commandant  made  an  evasive  gesture: 

"Oh,  as  for  him— 

"By  the  by,  I  wanted  to  ask  you:  have  you 
still  in  your  house  that  person 

"The  governess,  Colonel?  The  companion 
and  attendant  on  my  son?  You  mean,  do  you 
not,  Madame  Justine?" 

"Exactly.  I  am  told  that  Madame  Justine 
comes  from  a  convent?" 

With  a  little  shake  of  body  and  head,  the 
movement  of  a  man  whom  the  foil  has  touched  at 
fencing,  the  Commandant  replied : 

"Yes,  sir,  she  does." 

"She  was  the  Superior  of  a  Sisterhood?" 

"She  has  since  been  laicised." 

"Obviously;  and  she  teaches  your  children?" 

"No,  sir;  I  have  had  the  honour  of  explaining 
to  you  that  she  walks  out  with  my  son  Guy, 
whose  health  is  very  far  from  satisfactory.  Mad- 
ame de  Roinnet  sometimes  sends  the  little  girl 
out  with  her  too." 

"And  she  gives  the  children  instruction  on 
those  occasions  most  probably?" 

The  Commandant  coloured.  All  the  muscles 
of  his  thin  face  grew  tense,  and  revealed  yet 
more  sharply  the  nervousness  of  his  race. 

"If  I  thought  that,  sir- 
He  faltered;  he  felt  that  he  was  on  the  point 
of  disavowing  his  wife,  his  own  hidden  religious 
faith,  the  principles  of  his  whole  life,  and  the 
traditions  of  his  family.  All  the  de  Roinnets 


THE  NUN  161 

of  the  past  were  at  his  ear:  "Stop!  what  were 
you  about  to  say?" 

"If  I  thought  that,  sir,"  he  resumed,  evading, 
"I  should  tell  you  so." 

"That  is  well.  I  spoke  in  your  own  interests. 
You  are  ambitious,  and  quite  right  too.  It  is 
only  fair  to  warn  you  of  what  might  be»  to  your 
disadvantage." 

The  two  officers  parted  with  a  salute.  Ten 
minutes  later  M.  de  Roinnet  reached  his  house 
and  met  his  wife  in  the  corridor. 

"Marie,"  he  said,  "I  should  like  to  speak  to 
you." 

"What  is  it?    I  am  rather  in  a  hurry." 

"I  hope  you  are  not  giving  Madame  Justine 
a  place  at  the  dinner  to-night.  We  must  not  for- 
get that,  after  all,  there  are  certain  differences  of 
position,  of  breeding,  of  manners ." 

He  lunched  and  dined  daily  at  the  same  table 
as  the  former  Superior  of  the  convent  and  school 
of  Saint  Pontique.  Madame  de  Roinnet  said 
nothing  as  he  pursued: 

"If  you  included  her  in  this  dinner  party,  the 
discomfort  would  be  for  her,  and  the  embarrass- 
ment, as  well  as  for 

His  wife  answered  with  a  vague  and  judicious 
smile;  "I  thought  Guy  was  hardly  strong  enough 
to-night,  and  he  is  not  dining  with  us ;  so  Madame 
Justine  is  keeping  him  company.  It  is  all  settled. " 

That  Madame  Justine  was  only  barely  tolerated 
in  this  household  was  very  evident  to  herself. 
The  fact  had  been  made  clear  to  her  from  the  first 
day  of  her  arrival,  in  the  preceding  August,  by  the 


162  THE  NUN 

daily  acts,  words,  or  silences  of  all  about  her. 
After  three  weeks  spent  in  Lyons  in  a  vain  search 
for  employment,  she  had  had  the  brief  hope  of  an 
appointment  to  a  school  which  the  Catholics  of 
that  city  were  labouring  to  establish  upon  the 
rums  of  the  schools  destroyed  by  law ;  she  had  been 
judged  too  old  for  the  position.  Such  appoint- 
ments were,  of  course,  much  less  numerous  than 
the  members  of  Religious  Orders  expelled  from 
their  convents  or  dispossessed  of  their  schools,  and 
hi  either  case  in  search  of  the  means  of  livelihood. 
Of  the  five  women  who  had  dwelt  together,  fully 
employed,  in  the  house  of  the  Place  Saint  Pontique, 
only  one  had  found  work  as  a  teacher.  This  was 
the  portress,  Sister  Leonide.  Then  the  Superior, 
having  spent  the  forty  francs  which  formed  her 
whole  fortune  as  an  ex-nun,  had  accepted  a  place 
as  "governess  and  companion"  in  the  household 
of  Madame  de  Roinnet.  She  was  rather  a  nurse 
than  a  companion. 

Her  business — and  she  did  not  consider  it  in 
any  degree  beneath  her  dignity — was  chiefly  to 
walk  out,  whenever  the  weather  permitted,  with 
the  son  of  the  house,  the  poor  boy  incurably  con- 
sumptive, and  ill  in  mind  as  well  as  in  body,  who 
needed  frequent  comforting  and  close  nursing. 
She  had  to  amuse  him,  with  as  little  conversation 
as  possible,  to  choose  pleasant  walks,  to  find 
sheltered  seats,  to  avoid  acquaintances,  for  talking 
brought  on  his  shattering  cough,  to  take  charge 
of  the  plaid  and  goloshes,  to  betray  no  anxiety  of 
her  own,  to  make  no  manifestation  of  her  pity 
when  the  attacks  of  his  disease  were  violent,  to 


THE  NUN  163 

put  aside  all  fears  of  contagion  for  herself,  to  make 
the  dying  boy  look  forward  to  next  spring,  next 
summer,  other  summers  and  springs;  it  was  a 
mission  for  a  mother  rather  than  for  an  alien. 
Madame  de  Roinnet  had  attempted  it,  but  her 
tenderness  was  too  demonstrative;  she  found  it 
too  difficult  to  master  her  grief,  to  keep  back  her 
tears.  Moreover,  the  work  prevented  all  her 
social  obligations,  and  she  had  duties  to  the  Com- 
mandant, to  his  career,  and  to  her  little  girl,  who, 
the  doctors  warned  her,  must  not  be  much  in  the 
company  of  her  brother.  After  she  had  relin- 
quished the  task,  ten  servants  in  succession  had 
failed  in  it,  for  night-nursing  and  watching  were 
necessary,  as  well  as  perpetual  attention  by  day, 
and  Madame  Justine  had  been  called  in. 

She  endured  fatigue;  she  had  the  necessary 
patience  and  also  the  habit  of  authority  equally 
indispensable;  she  succeeded  in  gaining  the 
affection  of  the  young  man  who  was  little  more 
than  a  gloomy  and  embittered  child,  nay,  suc- 
ceeded only  too  well,  for  she  became  the  one 
support,  the  one  resource,  and  the  invalid  was 
excited  and  angry  if  ever  his  nurse  was  not  at 
hand,  not  ready  in  case  of  an  attack,  and  he — 
as  he  said  cruelly  enough — "all  alone."  But 
the  cook  and  the  maids  lost  no  opportunity  of 
making  Madame  Justine  feel  herself  isolated  in 
the  house — she,  a  woman  already  old  and  yet 
dependent,  of  most  distinguished  character,  of 
ordinary  education,  a  member  of  the  lower  class 
by  early  association,  by  no  means  a  lady,  yet  in 
the  habit  of  addressing  simply  as  " Monsieur"  the 


164  THE  NUN 

master  they  had  to  call  "  Monsieur  le  Baron." 
She  was  an  Alsatian,  besides,  and  the  orderly — 
a  doubtful  soldier  and  more  doubtful  servant, 
who  disliked  the  clear-seeing  eye  of  the  old  Superior 
— spread  the  rumour,  readily  believed  in  barracks, 
that  the  Commandant  employed  a  German  spy 
as  governess  for  his  children.  Madame  de  Roinnet 
took  her  part,  having  opposed  the  dismissal  of  the 
"companion,"  several  times  threatened  when  the 
drawing-room  talk  in  the  garrison  ran  to  this 
effect:  "You  know  that  Madame  Justine  they 
have  at  the  Commandant's?  Well,  my  dear,  she 
is  an  ex-nun — a  secularised  Sister.  She  was 
actually  the  Superior  in  a  convent!"  But  Guy's 
mother  had  almost  too  hard  a  task  in  the  refuta- 
tion of  so  many  unkind  suspicions,  so  many  cruel 
whispers.  She  was  too  unhappy  a  woman,  con- 
vinced as  she  was  at  heart  of  the  hopeless  state 
of  her  son,  and  involved  in  troubles  of  money,  to 
possess  energy  enough  for  the  protection  of 
Madame  Justine  against  those  who  would  have 
had  her  expelled.  The  nurse's  real  champion  was 
her  nursling.  Almost  every  day  the  more  violent 
attacks  of  his  disease  were  upon  him ;  he  struggled 
out  of  his  chair,  stifled,  his  face  full  of  the  terror  of 
the  loss  of  breath,  his  thin  arms  outstretched,  his 
hands  clutching.  The  father  turned  aside,  unable 
to  endure  the  sight,  or  hurried  away,  or  cried  to 
the  unfortunate  boy,  in  the  nervous  anger  of 
despair:  "What,  again?  Stop,  stop,  stop  in- 
stantly. Stop,  I  tell  you,  or  leave  the  room!" 
The  mother  ran  to  the  rescue.  But  it  was  on 
Madame  Justine's  breast  that  the  boy  cast  himself 


THE  NUN  165 

until  the  racking  cough  was  over,  and  on  her 
shoulder  that  his  head  rested,  bathed  in  the  sweat 
of  the  struggle.  As  the  weeks  went  by  M.  de 
Roinnet  saw  how  little  hope  there  was  that 
another  would  fill  her  place,  or  that  Guy  could 
bear  the  separation.  And  this,  too,  irritated  him ; 
his  ambition  of  standing  well  with  his  superiors 
was  hampered  by  this  domestic  difficulty. 

Madame  Justine  would  have  lived,  with  as 
much  ease  as  she  asked  of  fortune,  in  the  midst 
of  these  small  enmities,  had  she  been  free  from 
graver  anxieties.  In  her  few  and  uncertain 
moments  of  leisure  she  wrote  to  "her  daughters," 
and  many  times  every  day  her  thoughts  visited 
those  corners  of  France  where,  far  apart  from 
one  another,  lived  the  four  whom  she  so  grievously 
missed. 

It  was  for  the  youngest  only  that  she  was 
anxious.  To  the  letters  in  August  and  September 
Pascale  had  answered  briefly  that  she  had  been 
kindly  received  at  Nimes;  they  treated  her  with 
an  affection  that  was  touching  and  even  embar- 
rassing, inasmuch  as  they  allowed  her  to  do  very 
little  of  the  work  of  the  house ;  they  considered  her 
health  to  be  delicate,  and  Jules  Prayou  took  her 
out  a  great  deal  and  had  tried  to  persuade  her  to 
go  to  the  sham  bull-fights  and  even  to  the  theatre. 
She  held  back,  not  wishing  to  be  an  expensive 
guest  with  relatives  who  were  poorer  than  she  had 
thought  them,  and  who  were  yet  generous  to  her. 
"Just  think,  Mother,"  she  wrote,  "at  Beaucaire, 
where  they  have  a  fair  on  the  22nd  of  July, 
Jules  spent  for  me  more  than  thirty  francs,  what 


166  THE  NUN 

with  the  journey,  and  treats  and  presents!  And 
you  know  I  have  not  a  penny  of  my  own.  I  could 
not  stop  him.  And  then  afterwards  he  did  the 
same  at  Aries.  Nobody  knows  that  I  was  ever 
in  a  convent.  People  think  I  am  here  for  my 
health;  and,  in  fact,  I  am  taking  care  of  myself. 
The  heat  and  the  restful  life  have  done  wonders 
for  my  lungs.  I  am  quite  brown,  but  my  hair, 
which  is  growing  fast,  is  as  light  as  ever.  People 
stare  at  me  because  of  my  hair.  Things  come  into 
my  mind — things  I  never  thought  of  in  the  con- 
vent, where  we  five  did  not  own  a  looking-glass 
amongst  us.  Mother,  it  is  not  my  chest  that 
troubles  me  most,  it  is  the  heart  inside,  now  you 
are  not  there  to  take  care  of  it." 

Sister  Justine  wrote  recommending  more  pru- 
dence and  a  closer  watchfulness.  Her  letters  to 
Pascale  were  increasingly  affectionate.  But  no 
letter  from  Nimes  had  come  since  the  end  of 
September.  It  was  now  the  15th  of  October. 
Danielle  and  Edwige  wrote:  " Neither  has  she 
answered  our  last  letters." 

What  was  befalling  that  distant  one?  0 
agonising  question!  Madame  Justine  carried  it 
with  her  hi  the  long  hours  on  duty  with  her  in- 
valid. Her  mind  was  full  of  misgivings,  full  of 
plans.  She  had  no  more  rest  from  her  anxieties 
now  than  she  had  formerly  from  the  little  school- 
children or  the  poor  of  Lyons.  At  times,  as  she 
looked  across  the  bare  land  to  the  far  horizon  and 
the  distant  frontier,  the  thought  of  her  own 
native  country  recurred  to  her:  "Within  reach 
of  this  place  there  are  relatives  of  mine  living. 


THE  NUN  167 

They  would  take  me  in  if  I  wished  it ;  they  have 
written  to  tell  me  so.  There  is  my  sister,  married 
to  a  vine-cultivator  who  owns  a  very  good  vine- 
yard, near  Saint  Leonard.  There  is  my  brother, 
who  has  land  of  his  own  at  the  gates  of  Colmar, 
where  I  was  born.  I  might  go  back;  the  Kreis- 
director  would  give  me  the  necessary  authorisa- 
tion for  the  asking.  I  should  have  nothing  to  do 
but  to  grow  old  there  and  die  in  peace." 

But  the  thought  was  against  her  desire,  against 
her  heart.  What  she  listened  to  was  the  voice 
within:  "I  shall  go  through  the  trial  and  trouble 
of  France.  I  belong  to  France,  and  hi  France  my 
four  daughters  are  scattered." 

LEONIDE. 

Winter  was  over  for  dwellers  in  the  plains,  and 
the  wheat,  sprouting  green,  was  tempting  the 
mating  partridges  to  nest-building.  But  snow 
was  on  the  hills,  yielding  a  little  each  afternoon 
on  the  heights  of  Bugey,  where  dwelt  the  former 
portress  of  Saint  Pontique;  each  night  the  frost 
returned  and  stiffened  again  the  old  snow,  now 
trampled  and  full  of  holes.  The  village  was  built 
on  a  steep  south-western  slope  below  a  fir-forest 
which  the  peasants  pillaged,  and  the  lightning  had 
seared,  and  the  torrents  shattered.  Where  there 
was  not  forest,  there  were  rocky  fields,  ravines, 
land  partly  washed  away  by  water,  and  houses 
sheltering  where  they  found  a  footing.  Far  below, 
in  the  valley,  were  meadows  set  with  hedges,  al- 
most as  regular  as  dominoes.  And  so  far  was  it 
from  the  high  village  to  those  cultivated  lands, 


168  THE  NUN 

that  the  cries  of  the  men  below  goading  their  oxen 
at  the  plough  troubled  the  silence  on  the  heights 
less  than  did  the  whirr  of  the  grasshopper. 

Here,  in  a  free  school  newly  built,  Leonide  had 
held  an  appointment  as  assistant  since  the  July 
preceding.  A  rich  woman,  who  had  given  the 
land  for  the  school  and  who  bore  one  half  of  its 
charges — the  inhabitants  of  the  mountain-side 
supplying  the  rest — had  summoned  the  portress- 
cook  from  Lyons.  After  a  short  interview  the 
patroness  concluded: 

"Well,  my  little  Sister,  I  think  you  will  suit 
me." 

"I  am  glad  of  that,  Madame." 

"Then  I  shall  decide  to  engage  you.    I  like  you." 

"Ah!  if  you  had  seen  Sister  Pascale — you 
would  have  engaged  her!  Or  else  Sister  Edwige, 
or- 

"But  I  have  engaged  you,  you  know,  and  I 
think  I  shall  not  regret  it.  By  the  way,  you  will 
have  a  room  to  the  north,  I  must  tell  you." 

"It  is  all  the  same  to  me." 

"And  the  people  here  are  not  precisely  re- 
ligious." 

"I  can't  say  they  were  exactly  that  at  Lyons, 
either." 

"I  only  see  one  little  fault  in  you,  Sister." 

"You  might  see  plenty  if  you  looked,  Madame." 

' '  Well,  but  I  mean  that  you  have  lost  your  teeth. 
It  does  not  look  well— 

Leonide  laughed  with  all  her  heart. 

"I  shall  buy  some  then,  Madame.  In  a  fort- 
night I  shall  have  the  whole  set." 


THE  NUN  169 

She  went  to  a  dentist  before  leaving  Bourgen- 
Bresse,  and  arrived  at  her  new  home  hardly  prettier 
but  much  younger  of  aspect  than  she  had  been. 

"You  would  not  know  me  again,"  she  wrote 
to  her  Superior,  "if  you  were  to  meet  me  on  these 
steep  roads,  with  my  handsome  new  skirt  and  my 
hat,  and  all  my  teeth ;  you  would  only  know  "who 
it  was  when  I  ran  to  hug  you,  Mother." 

The  ardent  little  school-mistress  had  no  longer 
the  luck  of  Lyons  and  Saint  Pontique.  She  ran 
about,  she  taught,  she  talked,  she  catechised,  but 
without  the  old  cheering  success.  All  the  sum- 
mer, all  the  autumn,  all  the  winter,  in  dust,  mud, 
and  long-lasting  snow,  she  trudged  through  all  her 
free  hours  and  her  holidays,  from  house  to  house 
of  parents  and  guardians.  Many  of  the  guardians 
were  hostile,  few  of  the  parents  had  the  ordinary 
good  humour  of  the  city  or  the  valleys.  This 
hard-living  mountain-population  was  full  of  dis- 
content, was  suspicious  even  in  the  presence  of 
self-devotion — in  which  it  hardly  believed — was 
unresponsive,  quick-witted  in  buying  and  selling, 
armed  against  things  invisible.  The  better  part 
of  these  people  was  no  more  than  a  kind  of  half- 
aroused  indifference  and  the  remains  of  a  faith 
ancient  and  remote.  "How  they  must  have  been 
neglected!"  thought  Leonide.  "On  their  very 
death-beds  they  hardly  remember  to  look  up- 
wards. They  are  not  always  kind  to  me.  But  they 
shall  not  resist  me  for  ever ;  I  shall  use  the  strongest 
means  I  know — I  will  love  them,  I  do  love  them." 

She  had  walked  so  much,  on  paths  so  steep, 
and  through  snow  so  persistent,  that  at  the  be- 


170  THE  NUN 

ginning  of  March  she  had  fallen  seriously  ill  with 
double  pneumonia.  But  her  robust  constitution 
had  won  the  battle  with  disease;  and,  very  pale, 
very  thin,  she  sat  in  a  wicker  arm-chair,  covered 
with  black  woollen  wraps,  her  feet  on  a  hot-water 
bottle,  in  the  large  first-floor  room  above  the  class- 
room of  the  school.  The  children  had  left. 
Evening  had  turned  the  long  white  walls  ash-grey, 
the  red  cotton  bed-curtains  made  a  dark  spot  in 
the  pale  room.  The  clanking  of  wooden  shoes 
outside  was  audible,  and  within,  the  loud  ticking 
of  the  alarum  clock.  A  woman  came  up  the  stairs 
and  entered. 

"How  are  you  this  evening,  Leonide?  "  she  asked. 

From  the  midst  of  the  shawls  the  invalid  an- 
swered: "  Better  and  better." 

Her  voice  was  weak,  but  her  eyes  were  bright 
in  the  twilight.  With  the  lively  gratitude  of  the 
solitary  sick  for  a  visit  from  outside,  Leonide 
looked  up  at  the  head  mistress,  a  slender  young 
woman  with  a  long  face,  a  pretty  complexion,  and 
short-sighted  eyes  narrowed  by  the  perpetual 
effort  of  "accommodation."  She  kept  her  chilly 
hands  in  her  apron  pockets  and  sat  down  on  the 
other  side  of  the  fireplace. 

"The  little  girls  were  asking  about  you  again," 
she  said.  ' '  You  see,  they  don't  forget  you.  What 
I  came  about  was  to  ask  whether  you  don't  want 
to  go  to  bed  again.  I'll  help  you." 

"Thank  you;  but  let  me  sit  up  in  the  dark, 
just  another  hour." 

"It's  exceedingly  cold  outside." 

"But  I'm  really  coming  to  life  again  in  here," 


THE  NUN  171 

said  Leonide,  freeing  her  chin.  "Do  you  know 
what  I  was  thinking  about?  First  of  all  I  thought 
how  very  near  I  was  to  going  home " 

Seeing  the  astonishment  of  her  companion,  she 
smiled  slowly  and  pointed  her  fingers  upwards. 

"I  mean  my  home  aloft,"  she  said.  "But  it's 
put  off.  Then  I  was  thinking  of  the  kind  of  life  I 
led  for  ten  years  with  my  Sisters.  Does  it  bore 
you  to  hear  me  talk  about  it?" 

' '  Why,  no,  of  course  not,"  said  the  young  woman 
rather  languidly.  She  held  her  long  thin  hands  to- 
wards the  fire  with  a  patience  already  half  wearied. 

"I  can  tell  you  I  didn't  waste  my  time  hi  those 
days.  You  say  I  wear  myself  out  here ;  but  there 
I  was  always  on  my  feet:  sweeping,  cleaning, 
cooking,  answering  the  door,  washing — I  had  a  lot 
of  work.  I  was  a  kind  of  convent  general-servant ; 
and  yet,  mind  you,  the  others  always  treated  me 
as  their  sister — one  of  themselves." 

"Yes,  I  understand." 

"It's  a  better  kind  of  friendship  than  any 
friendship  out  in,  the  world." 

"Well,  it's  different,  anyway." 

"That  it  is." 

"Sadder,  I  should  think." 

"Sadder,  do  you  say?  You  should  have  seen 
the  good  spirits  we  were  in.  I'm  still  like  that. 
Sadder — Sister  Justine,  Sister  Edwige,  Sister 
Pascale!  Do  you  mean  what  you  say?  " 

"Well,  I  do.  I  can't  understand  being  happy 
shut  up  in  a  house  and  having  to  stay  there." 

A  whole-hearted  laugh,  a  peasant's  laugh  without 
the  noise  of  health,  astonished  the  head-mistress. 


172  THE  NUN 

"Are  you  happy,  Mademoiselle?  "  asked  Leonide. 

"Why,  yes— fairly." 

"Yet  you  can't  go  out  of  the  village  because  of 
the  snow.  You  have  to  stay  hi  to  teach  your 
class  and  to  take  care  of  me." 

There  was  a  silence  between  those  two  sep- 
arated women.  Then  the  mistress  rose,  put  her 
hands  into  her  pockets  again,  and  said: 

"I  am  going  to  cook  our  dinner.  In  half  an 
hour  I  shall  come  back  and  help  you  into  bed." 

Leonide  remained  alone.  In  spite  of  her 
wrappings  she  felt  the  frost  that  was  seizing  the 
earth,  the  trees,  the  walls  and  roof.  She  leant 
her  head  and  her  shoulders  against  the  back  of 
her  chair,  and,  with  the  precise  perception  of  one 
half-released  from  the  world,  she  measured  the 
greatness  of  her  solitude.  At  the  beginning  of 
her  work  in  that  place,  when  her  hard  walks  to 
the  outlying  hamlets  and  farms  had  been  over, 
she  had  slept  soundly  at  night,  overcome  with 
fatigue,  with  no  thought  of  to-morrow  except  that 
of  the  duty  to  be  done.  But  in  this  sad  hour  she 
judged  her  efforts  to  be,  at  least  for  the  time,  hi 
vain.  Was  there  any  good  will  towards  her  and 
her  mission  in  all  these  houses  closed  against  the 
cold  of  that  bleak  country?  Was  there  anyone 
who  really  knew,  or  cared  to  know,  why  she  had 
come  thither,  why  she  was  staying,  why  she  would 
never  wish  to  change,  to  "better  herself,"  to  mar- 
ry, or  even  to  complain?  No,  not  even  the  good 
girl  who  directed  the  school,  and  who  was  hoping 
to  make  a  little  money  and  to  get  away — to  escape, 
by  marriage  or  promotion,  the  hardship  of  this 


THE  NUN  173 

confinement  on  a  mountain  height.  All  doors,  all 
hearts,  were  closed.  The  alarum  was  ticking  the 
flight  of  futile  and  vacant  minutes.  Through  the 
window  the  sick  woman  saw  the  tops  of  the  dark 
and  serried  fir-woods,  her  eyes  receiving  their 
image  though  her  thoughts  did  not  dwell  upon 
them.  The  ragged  mists  rolled  over  those  dreary 
heights.  Untroubled  in  her  grief,  trying  to  smile 
again  her  patient  smile,  Le"onide  whispered: 

"I  accept  my  failures,  my  loneliness,  my  illness, 
all  things,  0  Lord,  for  the  sake  of  my  Sisters,  but 
particularly  for  the  little  one." 

She  had  heard  vaguely  that  Sister  Justine  was 
not  easy  about  Pascale.  They  had  told  her  no 
more — why  should  they?  She  had  never  made 
a  part  of  the  " Council"  of  the  Community.  But 
in  Madame  Justine's  brief  letters  she  had  guessed 
a  burden  of  sadness.  And  thus,  in  her  desolate 
and  disheartened  and  disenchanted  hour,  she 
consciously  took  the  trial  home  to  her  faithful  and 
fervent  heart:  "I  accept  my  poor  failures,  as 
Thou  wilt,  0  Lord,  for  my  Sisters,  and  particularly 
for  the  little  girl." 

The  formidable  night  enwrapped  the  mountain, 
the  forest,  the  hill- village ;  and  in  a  little  house 
that  one  fir-tree  might  have  covered  with  its 
shadow,  a  poor  creature  was  in  treaty  with  the 
Eternal  for  the  safety  of  a  soul  in  distress. 

EDWIGE. 

Early  summer,  the  warm  season  when  all  green 
things  are  not  yet  out,  when  the  young  leaves 
seem  verily  to  give  out  light — the  luminous  sum- 


174  THE  NUN 

mer  of  the  end  of  May — was  sweet  upon  the  waters 
of  the  Loire.  By  the  riverside,  in  the  valley, 
stood  the  narrow  house  of  the  keeper  of  a  level- 
crossing.  It  was  built  at  a  few  yards'  distance 
from  the  line  of  the  Paris  and  Nantes  railway, 
close  to  a  road  which  came  from  the  hills  on  the 
north,  crossed  the  valley,  the  fields,  and  the  rail, 
and  further  on  passed  over  the  Loire  by  an  arched 
bridge.  Peasants'  carts,  traders'  carriages,  mo- 
tors on  their  way  to  the  country-houses  of  the 
south,  came  to  the  crossing  at  any  hour  of  the  day 
or  night.  The  guard  had  to  close  and  open  the 
gates,  and  to  stand  outside  the  door  when  the 
trains  went  by.  The  task  was  not  exacting  or 
fatiguing,  but  it  needed  punctuality  and  the  habit 
of  light  sleep.  It  needed  also  no  little  courage, 
for  the  house  of  the  level-crossing-guard  was  far 
from  all  other  habitation;  few  were  the  farms  in 
these  low  valleys  on  account  of  the  frequent 
floods. 

It  was  three  o'clock  hi  the  afternoon.  An  old 
woman,  meanly  dressed,  but  with  her  hair  care- 
fully arranged  in  wavy  bands,  was  crouching 
over  a  garden-bed  near  the  house,  by  the  railway 
side.  She  was  pulling  up  weeds  from  the  sandy 
ground.  Her  movements  were  exceedingly  slow, 
yet  they  seemed  too  much  for  her  strength;  for, 
at  every  quarter  of  a  yard  of  weeding,  she  stopped 
and  rested,  with  her  eyes  upon  the  four  lines  of 
flying  steel  that  went  converging  to  the  far  hori- 
zon, where  they  seemed  to  meet  like  the  fastened 
threads  of  a  loom.  The  fields  on  either  side  of  the 
railway  had  their  young  crops  stirred  in  the  light 


THE  NUN  175 

by  the  gentle  wind.  Between  rows  of  poplars 
there  were  gleams  in  the  distance:  a  little  water 
and  a  little  sand,  like  silver  and  gold. 

The  woman  resumed  her  work,  broke  off 
again,  and  watched  the  line.  At  half-past  three 
she  called: 

"Here  comes  717." 

No  one  replied  for  a  few  moments,  and  she 
was  crouching  at  her  task  again  when  a  much 
younger  woman  opened  the  door  and  appeared 
upright  at  the  threshold. 

It  was  Edwige,  lovelier  than  in  the  days  of 
the  school  at  Saint  Pontique,  inasmuch  as  her 
chestnut  hair  was  visible  and  her  beautiful  eyes 
reflected  a  wider  sky.  But  now  her  look  of 
heavenly  mercifulness  rested  only  on  one  heed- 
less old  woman,  on  the  garden,  and  the  fields. 
She  wore  a  light  bodice  and  a  dark  skirt,  as  do 
so  many  country  women,  and,  by  way  of  protec- 
tion against  the  sun,  a  white  cambric  summer  hat 
of  English  fashion,  a  relic  of  better  days  in  her 
father's  house.  When  the  goods-train  reached 
the  crossing,  she  unrolled  and  lifted  the  red 
flag  in  her  hand.  For  two  minutes  the  earth 
shook,  the  willows  had  their  foliage  stirred,  birds 
went  up,  the  lowing  of  cattle  and  sounds  of  in- 
visible life  in  the  fields  arose  amid  the  rattle  of 
iron  wheels;  and,  as  the  last  truck  passed  by,  a 
little  shower  of  sand  fell  on  the  vegetables  and  the 
five  gooseberry  bushes  of  the  roadside  garden. 

The  old  woman  with  the  waved  hair  had  not 
looked  round.  Edwige  stood  for  a  moment 
turned  to  the  distant  East  with  its  gleam  of 


176  THE  NUN 

waters.  In  her  face  and  in  all  her  aspect  was 
legible  the  characteristic  message  of  her  love. 
She  went  back  into  the  little  house,  and,  as 
silence  again  settled  on  the  place,  drew  up  to  the 
table  again  the  chair  from  which  she  had  lately 
risen,  and  took  her  knitting.  At  her  elbow  a  book 
of  Hours  lay  open;  now  and  again  Edwige  read 
a  passage,  and  meditated  upon  it  as  her  fingers 
moved. 

Here  she  dwelt,  and  the  woman  was  her  mother. 
When  a  station-master  of  the  railway  company 
in  question  leaves  a  widow,  as  hi  this  case,  she 
has  a  right  to  the  holding  of  a  station  book-stall, 
if  such  a  place  be  vacant.  The  mother  of  Edwige, 
a  contentious  and  irritable  woman,  was  insistent 
in  her  claim,  but  there  were  several  senior  widows, 
and  there  was  no  vacancy.  After  a  time  of  great 
poverty,  at  first  alone  and  then  with  her  daughter, 
in  a  village  of  the  Blaisois,  she  had  accepted  the 
post  of  barrier-guard.  She  would  not  have  been 
unhappy  had  the  thought  of  a  "fall  in  life"  not 
harassed  her. 

On  account  of  her  rheumatism  she  left  the 
level-crossing  and  the  signal  to  her  daughter, 
whom,  however,  she  helped  by  her  keen  ear  and 
her  little  sleep.  By  night  and  day  she  watched 
the  clock  and  cried  "Time!"  when  a  train  was  due 
and  the  road-gates  were  open,  or  ' '  Someone  at  the 
crossing!"  when  the  gates  were  closed. 

Edwige  felt  herself  under  an  obligation  to 
remain  with  a  mother  whose  livelihood  depended 
upon  her.  She  accepted  the  duty  with  her  whole 
will  in  the  spirit  of  self-sacrifice  so  familiar  to  her 


THE  NUN  177 

thoughts  and  practice,  but  never  proclaimed. 
She  too  was  a  widow,  but  one  who  held  her  peace. 
She  was  never  found  in  tears.  Her  peculiar 
tenderness  seemed  to  brood  upon  the  present 
passing  day.  But  the  day  brought  two  distresses 
to  be  added  to  her  profound  and  perpetual  sor- 
row. One  was  in  the  morning,  and  one  in  the 
afternoon.  Her  heart  was  torn ;  her  mother  never 
knew  it. 

The  late  hour  was  drawing  near.  Several  times 
Edwige  had  looked  at  the  clock:  four  o'clock, 
five  minutes  past,  ten  minutes.  And  after  each 
questioning  glance  her  eyes  had  turned  to  the 
grass-bordered  road  on  her  right.  Another  min- 
ute or  two  and  her  mother's  voice  called:  " Ed- 
wige! quick — there  they  are!  and  the  express  is 
in  sight!"  She  ran  to  the  gates,  her  tender  face 
pale  and  drawn.  Thirty  children,  boys  and  girls, 
going  home  from  school,  were  at  the  level-crossing, 
crying,  " Mademoiselle!  Quick,  Mademoiselle!" 
The  boys  lifted  their  caps  to  her,  the  girls  held  up 
their  hands  with  the  fingers  out  as  in  class.  It 
was  a  clamour  of  fresh  voices  and  a  flash  of  bright 
eyes. 

She  opened  the  gate  that  barred  the  road,  for 
there  was  time,  and  the  children  ran  across,  little 
ones  hurried  by  their  elders ;  the  gates  were  closed 
again,  and  they  were  gone.  Soon  the  company  of 
little  figures  was  dim  upon  the  distant  road  like 
a  flock  of  sheep  in  a  cloud  of  dust. 

Edwige,  with  a  beating  heart,  saw  the  passing 
by  of  the  childhood  she  so  longed  to  cherish. 
Turning  with  her  useless  love  back  into  the  house, 


178  THE  NUN 

she  thought  of  Lyons,  next  of  Nimes,  and  then 
of  God. 

DANIELLE. 

The  sun  is  about  to  rise,  and  it  is  hot  already. 
On  all  the  southward  slopes  of  the  hills  of  La 
Correze  a  mist  goes  up  from  the  grass,  the  foliage, 
the  copses  heavy  with  dew.  It  is  the  hour  when 
the  cattle  must  be  driven  afield.  Midway  on  the 
hill-side,  nearer  to  Uzerche  than  to  Brive,  a  farm 
awakes.  It  is  a  long,  old  building,  and  stands  be- 
tween the  fields  of  maize,  of  oats,  and  of  potatoes, 
and  the  chestnut  woods — the  cultivated  fields 
thrusting  their  wedges  into  the  domain  of  the 
forest.  Lower  down  are  enclosures  of  clover, 
pastures,  and  a  torrent  in  the  valley;  and  another 
hill  rises  beyond,  also  with  pastures  below,  with 
crops  above,  with  great  trees  higher  still,  and  with 
a  summit  of  bare  rocks.  The  valley  is  deep,  and 
the  sound  of  its  torrent  does  not  reach  the  solitary 
heights. 

Before  the  farm-house  a  young  man  harnessed 
his  horse  to  a  light  carriage,  which — his  wife 
aiding — he  then  loaded  with  half-a-dozen  little 
pigs.  This  done,  the  man  and  woman  climbed  to 
their  seats. 

" Good-bye,  for  the  present,  grandfather," 
cried  the  man.  " Don't  expect  us  before  night." 

The  words  were  called  in  the  Limousin  dialect, 
with  a  sharp  note  and  a  singing  inflection,  and 
they  still  rang  against  the  tiled  roof  and  the  win- 
dow panes  when  the  travellers  had  swung  round  to 
the  back  of  the  farm  and  begun  the  descent. 


THE  NUN  179 

A  door  opened  at  the  far  wing  of  the  building, 
and  a  cow  walked  forth,  stretching  her  neck  and 
snuffing  the  moist  grass,  then  another  cow  and 
then  another — seven — and  behind  the  last  came 
the  woman  who  drove  them.  She  was  dressed  like 
a  beggar,  and  her  feet  were  hi  wooden  shoes ;  but 
under  the  winged  cap  of  that  province  her  face 
kept  its  grave  and  spiritual  beauty.  She  held, 
trailing,  a  long  stick  cut  from  a  tree  and  still 
wearing  a  few  leaves.  When  she  raised  her  eyes, 
she  looked  across  at  the  opposite  height. 

"Oh,  that's  you,  Danielle;  none  too  soon. 
In  my  time  the  cow-woman  was  up  the  hill  before 


sunrise." 


"The  cows  would  not  be  milked,"  replied 
Danielle.  She  added,  turning  towards  the  house : 

"Good  morning,  grandfather.  Did  you  sleep 
well?" 

"You  know  I  didn't.  I  never  do.  It's  a  silly 
question  to  ask  every  morning." 

The  speaker  was  an  old  man  whose  head,  in  a 
blue  cotton  cap,  and  hairy  neck  showing  in  the 
opening  of  his  shirt,  were  seen  at  a  narrow  window. 
His  rancorous  face  with  its  dry,  hard  wrinkles 
had  little  life  except  in  the  glances  of  crimson- 
lidded  eyes.  He  resumed : 

"They  are  off,  those  two.    You  saw  them?" 

"They  are  going  down  the  hill  now." 

"You  don't  mind  being  alone.  But  I  can  tell 
you  I  do." 

"Poor  grandfatherl" 

"Don't  keep  saying  'poor  grandfather.'  It's 
all  on  account  of  you  that  I'm  in  the  state  I  am. 


180  THE  NUN 

Since  you  came  home  from  your  convent  they 
leave  me  alone.  I  am  just  like  a  lot  of  old  clothes, 
chucked  into  a  corner.  Nobody  as  much  as 
thinks  of  looking  at  me." 

"But  don't  I  take  care  of  you?" 

"Your  brother  did,  before  you  came.  And  he 
used  to  take  me  to  the  fairs.  I  used  to  have  a 
drink  with  him.  He  didn't  take  his  wife.  Now 
that  you  do  her  work  and  he  can  drive  her  about, 
I've  got  to  sit  here.  You  can't  say  that's  not 
true." 

She  said  nothing. 

"Before  you  came  we  all  got  on  better.  He 
used  to  give  me  money  for  my  tobacco.  Some- 
times he  brought  me  a  hat  or  a  coat.  Now  I 
get  nothing.  I  don't  know  when  he  means  to 
buy  me  another  pair  of  shoes,  and  mine  are 
done  for.  He  just  says,  'We've  got  to  keep 
Danielle.7  Well,  then,  what  I  say  is,  you  shouldn't 
have  come." 

"Where  should  I  have  gone?" 

"Couldn't  you  find  a  place?" 

"I  tried.     I  could  hear  of  nothing." 

"Couldn't  you  marry,  then?" 

"Ah,  grandfather!" 

"What  I  say  is,  you  shouldn't  have  come. 
It's  very  hard  upon  us." 

"But  you  said  I  might:  you  called  me  home." 

"I  was  wrong,  then.  I  thought  you  would 
bring  back  the  money." 

"What  money?" 

"The  three  hundred  francs  I  paid  for  your 
clothes  when  you  went." 


THE  NUN  181 

She  walked  away  hastily,  calling,  "Good- 
bve,  grandfather.  The  cows  are  a  long  way 
up." 

The  reproaches  of  the  old  man  followed  her  until 
she  reached  a  space  of  silence.  She  walked  up  a 
tree-bordered  road,  the  natural  corridor  of  the 
forest,  a  wide  path  trodden  by  men  and  cattle, 
and  barred,  at  two  hundred  yards'  distance  from 
the  farm,  by  a  couple  of  tall  trees.  The  place 
looked  like  a  nave  with  shattered  roof,  and  sug- 
gested the  recesses  of  chapels  full  of  shadow. 
Danielle  walked  in  the  middle  track,  light,  erect, 
and  grave.  The  corn-coloured  cattle  went  on 
before,  wrinkling  their  hides  and  swinging  their 
tails  under  the  irritation  of  the  flies.  They  passed 
in  single  file  into  the  wood,  crushing  the  young 
grass  and  stirring  the  branches. 

How  much  altered  had  Danielle  found  her  old 
home!  Father  and  mother  were  dead  years  ago. 
The  grandfather  had  grown  so  old  and  was  so 
changed  that  his  grandchild  hardly  knew  him 
again.  He  was  worn,  he  was  unable  to  work,  he 
was  soured  by  sleeplessness,  and  yet  more  by  his 
regrets  at  an  act  of  his  own;  he  had  divided,  by 
deed  of  gift,  his  possessions  between  his  sons— 
the  father  of  Pierre,  now  master  of  the  farm,  and 
Jacques,  who  lived  nine  miles  away  down  the 
valley.  His  lamentations  over  his  confined,  de- 
pendent, hampered,  and  tedious  life  never  ceased 
for  a  day  or  even  an  hour.  His  grandson  did  not 
lend  an  ear  to  them,  nor  did  that  grandson's  wife, 
for  these  two  had  ceased  to  fear  him.  But  in 
Danielle  he  had  a  patient  victim.  On  her  he 


182  THE  NUN 

emptied  the  budget  of  his  complaints  and  his 
reproaches.  He  would  willingly  have  sent  her 
away  in  the  hope  of  regaining  the  little  presents 
which  he  had  been  used  to  receive  from  the  master, 
and  which  were  now  economised  on  the  pretext 
that  Danielle  was  expensive.  Now  he  charged  her 
with  laziness,  albeit  she  was  the  first  to  rise  and 
the  last  to  rest  in  that  household;  and  now  he 
returned  to  the  subject  of  his  own  privations. 
He  could  not  see  her  without  a  diseased  and 
unreasonable  irritation.  Nothing  soothed  him, 
though  Danielle  pleaded,  met  him  with  patience, 
and  redoubled  her  attentions  to  his  peevish  per- 
son. He  was  well  aware  that  the  master  and  his 
wife,  who  had  been  willing  to  take  into  the  house 
for  a  few  weeks  this  homeless  nun,  thought  with 
him ;  her  visit  was  too  long ;  and  what  if  Danielle 
should  ask  them  some  day  for  her  part  in  the  in- 
heritance, voluntarily  renounced  by  her  when  she 
entered  the  religious  life?  The  apprehension  was 
a  vain  one,  but  it  alarmed  those  watchful  and 
calculating  souls. 

Danielle  accepted  the  suspicion,  the  misjudg- 
ment,  the  insult  of  her  home.  She  did  not  even 
wonder  that,  violently  reproached  as  she  had 
been  for  her  departure,  she  should  be  rebuked  for 
her  return.  Here,  as  in  the  school  of  Saint  Pon- 
tique,  she  was  the  silent  ascetic  whose  treasure 
was  in  the  daily  cross.  She  awaited  the  hour,  if 
such  an  hour  should  ever  come,  when  she,  like 
Sister  Leonide,  might  recover  in  some  school  apart 
of  that  vocation  that  had  been  so  shattered  in  the 
destruction  of  the  convent  life. 


THE  NUN  183 

Since  their  separation,  Danielle  had  heard  of- 
tener  than  the  two  others  from  the  old  Superior. 
She  was  still  the  counsellor,  the  trusted  one. 
She  knew  as  well  as  Sister  Justine  herself  how  it 
was  with  Leonide  and  with  Edwige.  The  letters 
which  the  postman  brought  at  irregular  intervals 
to  the  farm  were  for  Danielle  an  event,  a  hope,  a 
comfort,  but  also  a  cause  of  keenest  griefs.  For 
amid  the  news,  the  recollections,  the  affectionate 
words,  that  linked  her  with  one  comrade  in  the 
mountains  of  the  Ain,  and  with  another  in  the 
valley  of  the  Loire,  there  was  often  a  passage  of 
reference  to  her  who  dwelt  at  Nimes.  And 
Danielle,  always  alarmed  for  that  most  beloved 
soul,  was  anxious,  was  sorrowful,  was  fired  with 
the  longing  to  bear  the  burden  of  the  youngest 
Sister. 

Ah,  cruel  letters!  She  kept  them  hidden  in 
a  little  wooden  box  under  the  mattress  of  the 
miserable  bed  where  she  lay  in  the  stable — a 
drover's  bed,  above  the  mangers  of  the  cattle 
and  the  horses.  Cruel  letters — she  knew  their 
phrases  by  heart,  and  pondered  them  with  so 
keen  a  compassion  that  she  had  no  tears  left  of 
pity  for  herself.  Dominant  love  was  in  her  heart ; 
a  prevailing  resolve  that  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven 
should  suffer  violence  on  behalf  of  Pascale.  And 
to-day — for  a  letter  had  come  on  the  night  preced- 
ing— among  the  high  pastures  where  she  kept  the 
cows  in  solitude,  in  the  sun,  in  the  wind,  and  in  the 
rain,  Danielle  prayed,  offering  her  life  to  God  for 
that  Sister  whom  she  was  never  again  to  behold 
on  earth. 


184  THE  NUN 

"August  12th,  1902. 

"  And  what  shall  I  tell  you  now  of  our  youngest 
one?  I  wish  I  could  write  something  cheering 
about  that  darling  of  us  all,  but  I  cannot.  Five 
days  ago  came  a  letter  of  so  worldly  a  tone  that  I 
am  more  uneasy  than  ever.  Pascale  is  full  of 
self-congratulation  as  to  the  manner  in  which  they 
treat  her  at  Nimes.  It  is  evident  that  she  is 
flattered,  that  she  is  indulged  and  amused,  and 
that  her  sensibility — the  weakness  we  used  to  try 
to  cure  her  of — is  worked  upon  by  these  people  hi 
order  to  persuade  her  to  accept  pleasures  not 
suitable  for  such  as  she.  She  is  grateful  to  them, 
and  bound  by  her  gratitude,  with  what  poor 
reason  you  shall  judge.  She  writes,  'You  must 
not  be  angry,  Mother;  you  must  not  scold  me. 
It  is  impossible  to  refuse  when  I  see  how  it  would 
hurt  them.  They  are  most  kind  to  me,  although 
I  see  clearly,  by  many  signs,  that  they  are  poorer 
than  I  thought  them.  The  dress  I  am  wearing — 
the  one  that  was  given  to  me  at  Lyons  was  too 
hot — they  insisted  on  buying  for  me.  Everything 
I  use  they  have  given  me.  My  aunt  never  opposes 
her  son  when  he  says  that  he  has  planned  a  walk 
or  an  excursion  for  her  and  me ;  and  how  could  I 
hold  back?  They  give  me  very  little  work  to  do, 
as  they  say  I  am  still  too  weak.  Indeed  I  am, 
if  anything,  thinner,  in  spite  of  the  rest.  I  still 
cough  a  little  in  the  mornings.  If  I  were  sure 
that  you  were  pleased  with  me,  that  you  did  not 
disapprove,  I  should  be  almost  quiet  in  my  mind. 
Quite  quiet,  quite  at  peace,  I  shall  never  be  but 
at  your  side.7 


THE  NUN  185 

"These  words  of  our  Pascale  will  make  you 
as  anxious  as  they  have  made  me.  I  know 
little  of  her  surroundings  but  I  feel  certain  that 
they  are  bad  for  her.  I  guess  many  things  she 
does  not  say.  I  hope  she  will  say  them  soon,  for 
I  have  written  her  my  questions.  No  one  here 
knows  anything  of  my  grief;  I  think  no  one 
would  understand  it.  My  poor  consumptive 
boy,  whose  nurse  and  companion  I  am,  says  to 
me  sometimes:  'What  are  you  thinking  about?' 
And  I  want  to  answer:  'About  my  poor  children, 
who  are  all  so  far  from  me!'  Adieu,  adieu! 

"P.S.— M.  Talier-De"capy  is  dead.  That  good 
man,  with  whom  I  spoke  only  once  in  my  life, 
has  left  me  a  legacy.  A  letter  from  his  lawyer 
told  me  of  this.  I  have  three  thousand  francs 
in  the  bank.  So  if  you  should  be  in  want,  let 
me  know." 

"October  18th. 

"I  have  had  no  letter  from  Pascale  since  the 
end  of  September.  I  am  terribly  anxious.  Can 
she  be  ill?  She  was  in  weak  health.  I  hardly 
dare  ask  any  other  question  about  her.  I  have 
written  two  letters  since  her  last,  the  second 
one  very  urgent,  both  very  affectionate.  No 
answer.  I  wrote — though  rather  reluctantly — 
to  her  aunt  Prayou.  She  has  made  no  reply. 
I  cannot  rest  in  this  state  of  doubt — I  am  too 
unhappy.  You  must  advise  me.  This  is  what 
I  have  done  so  far:  Do  you  remember  a  girl 
called  Louise  Casale,  who  was  friendly  to  our 
school?  Her  family  were  Nimes  people.  She 


186  THE  NUN 

was  an  anaemic  girl,  and  had  been  to  the  lay 
school,  and  she  used  to  come  to  see  us.  She 
was  not  ignorant  of  the  world,  but  quite  good 
and  innocent  at  heart.  I  asked  this  Louise  to 
help  me.  'Try  to  think/  I  wrote  to  her,  'of 
some  relation  of  yours  at  Nimes,  or  some  friend, 
someone  to  be  trusted,  who  can  find  out  and 
tell  me  what  has  happened  to  my  child,  whether 
for  good  or  ill.'  I  am  still  waiting.  And  I  am 
sorry,  I  accuse  myself,  I  often  cry  bitterly,  for 
having,  at  a  time  of  hard  trouble,  allowed  this 
poor  little  Pascale  to  leave  me ;  I  ought  to  have 
kept  her,  at  any  cost — of  hard  work,  of  poverty, 
of  cold,  of  death  itself.  I  should  have  saved 
her.  Where  is  she  now?  Pray  for  us  both, 
Danielle." 

11  November  3rd. 

"My  Sister  Danielle, — Our  darling  whom  we 
all  loved,  who  had  nothing  against  her  but  the 
weakness  of  her  gentle  heart,  who  had  taken 
refuge  amongst  us,  whom  we  are  no  longer  able 
to  protect — I  cannot  write  the  words  without 
tears.  Sister  Danielle,  she  has  allowed  herself 
to  be  deceived;  she  has  thought  herself  in  love; 
she  has  fallen  from  God.  I  cannot  doubt  it. 
I  learnt  it  yesterday  from  a  relative  of  Louise 
Casale,  a  widow — Madame  Rioul,  who  lives  at 
Montauri.  This  woman  knew  nothing  of  the 
history  of  our  child,  but  she  perceived  the  tempta- 
tion and  the  persuasion.  It  was  always  so  easy 
to  persuade  Pascale;  she  yielded  so  readily  to  a 
kind  word;  she  thought  their  love  was  good  and 


THE  NUN  187 

innocent.  They  flattered  her,  amused  her,  bound 
her  by  their  attentions  and  their  presents,  until 
she  was  at  their  mercy.  They  were  each  other's 
accomplices,  these  people,  mother  and  son.  They 
are  suspected  and  feared  where  they  live.  Not 
only  is  the  mother  unable  to  restrain  the  worst 
actions  of  her  son,  she  has  served  her  own  vile 
interests.  She  knew  that  in  this  girl,  whom  she 
allowed  to  be  corrupted,  she  would  have  an  unpaid 
servant  compelled  to  stay  in  the  house.  Pascale 
fallen,  my  Danielle!  Pascale,  almost  a  saint, 
given  over  to  brute  beasts!  How  she  will  suffer! 
Far  more  than  those  would  who  were  not  called 
to  a  consecrated  life.  All  day  long  I  have  thought 
I  heard  her  cry  for  help.  Is  it  true,  is  it  true  that 
she  is  lost?" 

"November  8th. 

"You  say  'Go  to  her,  speak  to  her,  take  her 
away.'  Do  you  suppose  I  did  not  immediately 
think  of  that?  Should  I  be  her  mother  if  I  did 
not  think  of  it?  The  widow,  Madame  Rioul, 
tried  gently  to  speak  to  Pascale,  and  was  repulsed. 
But  she  is  not  I.  When  I  first  heard  the  dreadful 
news,  six  days  ago,  I  tried  to  get  away.  I  went 
to  Madame  de  Roinnet  in  her  room  to  ask  for  leave. 
Of  course,  I  could  not  give  her  my  reasons.  She 
was  much  distressed.  She  said :  '  If  you  leave  us, 
even  for  .one  day,  I  cannot  answer  for  the  conse- 
quences. You  have  been  here  only  three  months 
and  you  want  a  holiday  already!  M.  de  Roinnet 
will  take  advantage  of  your  going  to  discharge  you 
altogether,  and  what  will  become  of  us  without 


188  THE  NUN 

you?'  I  was  going  to  say:  'All  the  same,  I 
must  go/  when  Guy  rushed  in;  he  had  been 
listening.  He  had  a  terrible  attack.  I  was 
obliged  to  attend  to  him  only.  So  then  I  took 
advice  of  a  confessor.  He  said:  'Do  not  give 
up  a  clear  and  certain  duty  of  charity  for  a  mission 
too  likely  to  fail.  The  hour  is  not  yet  come 
when  you  will  be  heard  by  her  whom  you  go  to 
seek.  When  she  is  able  to  come  to  you,  you  will 
hear  her  cries  and  her  tears.  Wait!'  So  I  am 
waiting,  but  I  can  hardly  live  in  such  torment  of 
mind.  My  thoughts  are  not  here;  they  are  all 
with  her  who  is  unworthy." 

11 November  22nd. 

"I  have  another  letter  from  Nimes,  but  not 
from  Pascale.  But  first  of  all,  forgive  me.  I 
used  too  hard  a  word.  Unworthy  she  may  be. 
But  you  have  thought,  as  I  have,  of  all  the  things 
that  lighten  her  sin.  She  did  not  seek  evil,  she 
was  thrown  into  it.  Iniquitous  laws  cast  her 
into  the  peril  from  which  she  had  fled.  She  has 
been  the  poor  quarry  that  dogs  and  huntsmen 
drive  from  its  cover  to  the  guns. 

"She  is  guilty,  but  the  Judge  who  cannot  be 
deceived  will  surely  not  punish  her.  She  had  a 
credulous  heart,  she  was  easily  touched,  she  was 
a  most  grateful  creature.  And  by  these  sweet 
characters  they  have  caught  her,  and  keep  her 
captive!  She  had  no  mother;  no  doubt  she 
thought  she  had  found  a  real  home,  a  real  family, 
at  Nimes.  She  went  there  in  obedience  to  me, 
her  Superior.  The  gentle  Pascale  had  to  defend 


THE  NUN  189 

herself  against  a  man  well  versed  in  the  art  of 
overcoming  women,  a  handsome  man,  I  am  told, 
a  cunning  one,  cruel  under  an  attractive  surface, 
and  a  cleverer  talker  than  anyone  in  Lyons.  And 
she  was  young,  and  they  lived  in  the  same  house. 
"I  will  not  repeat  to  you  the  details  that  have 
been  told  me.  You  can  guess  them.  It  is  only 
the  story  of  a  common  seduction.  You  visited 
with  me  the  unhappy  ones  of  the  Lyons  streets. 
The  frightful  thing  is  that  this  is  Pascale,  and  that 
we  cannot  help  her." 

"Sunday,  January  18th,  1903. 

"They  tell  me  that  she  hardly  ever  speaks, 
that  she  is  gloomy  and  angry,  she  who  was  so 
joyous.  No  one  in  the  Montauri  district  knows 
what  a  blessed  calling  was  hers,  or  what  a  blessed 
creature  she  was.  Jules  Prayou  has  taken  care 
that  no  one  shall  know.  The  indifferent,  the  im- 
pious even,  would  think  such  a  fall  too  cruel  a 
scandal.  I  hear  that  Pascale  is  closely  watched, 
closely  kept,  and  hardly  ever  leaves  the  house; 
the  time  of  excursions  and  fairs  and  walks  and 
presents  is  long  gone  by." 

"February. 

"Our  child  is  more  helpless  than  ever.  Prayou 
has  left  her  for  other  women.  She  is  his  mother's 
servant,  and  does  all  the  work  of  the  house,  earning 
only  contempt,  unpitied  and  silent.  She  has  not 
given  her  confidence  to  anyone,  and  no  one  sees 
her  cry.  If  she  would  only  speak,  and  call  me! 


190  THE  NUN 

Has  she  not  suffered  enough  to  make  her  call  me 
yet,  or  has  she  suffered  too  much?  Who  can  tell 
me?" 

"Friday,  March  27th. 

"The  neighbours  say  that  the  man  often  insults 
her  and  beats  her.  And  yet  the  time  has  not  yet 
come.  Madame  Rioul  met  her  four  days  ago  in 
the  street  and  said  to  her,  'You  look  ill.'  Pascale 
answered:  'If  I  do,  whose  business  is  it?'  The 
widow  said :  '  It  is  the  business  of  those  who  wish 
you  well,  as  I  do,  Madame  Pascale,  and  as  Sister 
Justine  does.'  Pascale  was  pale,  and  turned  her 
head  away.  She  said:  'I  don't  know  what  vou 
mean."! 

Other  fragments  of  letters  during  the  spring 
and  early  summer  had  brought  to  Danielle  a 
renewal  of  sorrow.  Then,  suddenly,  at  the  end 
of  July,  a  desperate  word  had  come  from  Justine. 
The  night  before  that  serene  sunrise  on  the 
forest  of  Correze,  Danielle  had  received  these 
hurried  lines: 

"I  am  leaving  for  Nirnes.  My  child  has  not 
called  me,  but  I  know  now  that  she  has  been 
brought  to  the  lowest  of  all  disgrace.  She  is  a 
slave,  she  is  his  property.  I  must  set  her  free. 
For  two  days,  Danielle,  think  of  nothing,  pray 
for  nothing,  else.  JUSTINE." 

In  the  forest,  following  her  cows,  walks  Danielle. 
It  has  not  been  necessary  to  bid  her  think  of 
nothing  else.  No  other  thought,  no  other  image, 


THE  NUN  191 

goes  up  with  her  into  the  solitude  of  the  mountain. 
The  path  grows  steep,  it  passes  between  rocks 
overturned,  the  trees  grow  fewer,  and  the  oldest 
lift  up  heads  ruined  by  storms.  Danielle,  all 
alone  with  God,  walks  with  her  arms  out  in  the 
form  of  a  cross,  praying  like  Joan  of  Domremy, 
like  Germaine,  like  Genevieve.  Now  and  then  a 
square  rock  between  two  chestnut  trees,  standing 
in  the  sunrise,  has  the  aspect  of  an  altar. 


V. 


PASCALE. 

IT  was  nine  o'clock,  and  the  night  was  hot; 
hotter  still  the  dusty  breath  of  the  city  of  Nimes. 
The  soil  gave  back  the  heat  of  the  day;  and  the 
odour  of  the  gutters,  of  the  cellars,  of  the  houses, 
of  the  manure  dropped  by  the  carts  and  crushed 
by  their  wheels,  of  the  melon  peel  and  other  refuse 
of  fruit  lying  about  the  doors — all  rose  together 
into  the  weary  air.  On  the  hills  beyond,  a  western 
breeze  carried  scents  of  lavender,  of  rosemary,  of 
mint,  and  of  foliage  and  thirsty  plants.  In  the 
streets  there  was  hardly  air  enough  to  stir  the  stale 
and  heavy  odours,  but  when  a  little  motion  came 
all  who  felt  it  were  glad  to  be  out  of  doors.  The 
people  of  Nimes — those  whom  the  hot  weather 
had  not  driven  out  of  town — walked  to  and  fro, 
drank  hi  the  cafes,  the  wine-shops,  and  the  inns, 
strolled  round  the  fountains,  and  sat  wherever 
they  found  a  bench. 

At  the  head  of  the  wide  Cours  de  la  Republique, 
where  lie  the  fountain  gardens,  the  working-men 
and  shop-people  passed  and  repassed  slowly,  chat- 
ting, well  pleased,  their  work  over.  There  was  a 
good  deal  of  laughter.  Many  girls  paraded  a 
fancied  beauty.  Love  intrigues,  jokes,  small  slan- 
ders, filled  all  these  minds  and  made  all  the  talk. 

192 


THE  NUN  193 

No  grave  thought  came  by ;  one  might  easily  count 
the  faces  that  looked  even  slightly  serious.  Many 
children  were  led  up  and  down  in  the  evening  air. 
Soldiers  were  loitering  or  going  back  to  barracks. 
Aloft,  beyond  the  street  and  above  the  pine-wood, 
the  Magne  tower  stood  up  like  a  lighthouse,  vague 
and  extinct  in  the  night. 

A  woman  stood  motionless  near  the  row  of 
nettle  trees,  and  leant  against  a  gas-lamp.  The 
shadow  of  the  base  of  the  gas-jet  fell  over  her, 
wavering.  Her  trade  was  to  be  guessed  by  the 
signs  of  her  youth,  her  solitude,  and  her  taking  no 
part  in  the  movement  around  her.  She  had  her 
back  to  the  fluctuating  crowd.  She  knew  that 
those  who  wanted  her  would  come  to  her.  But 
from  time  to  time  her  eyes  turned  askance  towards 
one  group  among  the  townspeople.  This  group 
was  formed  by  a  young  man,  slender,  young,  well 
dressed,  wearing  a  straw  hat  and  a  scarf-pin ;  by 
a  younger  man,  with  a  long,  southern  body  and 
short  legs,  and  by  two  women.  The  man  walked 
to  and  fro  in  the  lights,  narrowing  his  eyes  now  and 
then  to  make  out  the  thin  form  of  the  solitary 
girl  under  the  lamp-post.  He  talked  continu- 
ously, with  his  customary  gesticulation  and  re- 
curring laughter.  At  times  his  eyes  and  hers 
met  sidelong,  and  the  brief  exchange  of  glances 
made  the  woman  rigid  again.  She  was  afraid. 

This  was  her  third  night  on  that  pavement. 
She  was  a  thing  to  be  used,  with  no  right  of 
complaint.  As  the  man  bade  her,  she  waited 
in  the  street,  the  butt  of  the  contemptuous  jokes 
of  the  passers  by,  or  the  object  of  their  random 


194  THE  NUN 

desires;  she  had  no  will,  no  choice,  no  name. 
When  the  shadow  flickered  from  her  bare  head, 
it  might  be  seen  that  she  had  beautiful  fair  hair, 
thick  but  short,  so  that  it  made  a  small  flat  knot 
behind. 

A  man  lounging  on  a  seat  at  a  couple  of  yards' 
distance  caught  sight  of  her,  looked  again,  and 
stood  up.  He  lurched  towards  her,  and  she  drew 
away,  slipping  behind  the  lamp-post.  The  man 
came  on  with  his  arms  out,  steadying  himself. 
He  wore  the  dress  of  the  drovers  of  the  Cevennes, 
who  bring  their  herds  and  flocks  to  the  market  at 
Nimes.  His  square,  coarse  face,  framed  in  short 
whiskers,  wore  a  fixed  laugh,  and  between  his  fat, 
earthen-coloured  cheeks  showed  the  edges  of  strong 
teeth.  The  girl  would  have  eluded  him,  but 
for  the  young  man  watching;  she  was  afraid. 
Even  so,  as  she  drew  back  out  of  the  uncertain 
shadow  into  the  light  beyond,  she  was  more 
easily  seen:  she  was  sweet,  she  was  delicate,  she 
was  ashamed,  she  was  afraid.  For  fear  that  the 
drover  might  take  her  hands,  she  thrust  them 
into  the  pockets  of  her  blue  apron.  This  scene  of 
misery,  of  sensible  and  conscious  shame,  came  to 
pass  in  the  open  street  amid  the  voices,  the  dust, 
the  indifference,  or  the  curiosity  of  the  strolling 
crowd.  The  man  groped,  came  against  the  lamp- 
post, grasped  it,  drew  up  his  great  stature,  and 
with  his  free  hand  seized  the  woman  and  dragged 
her  to  him  to  kiss  her.  She  struggled,  uttering  a 
momentary  cry.  There  was  some  laughter  among 
the  crowd  because  here  was  a  harlot  who  would 
not  be  kissed.  Someone  cried,  "Hold  on!"  A 


THE  NUN  195 

police  agent  looked  on  from  a  distance.  A 
drunkard  rather  rough  with  a  wanton — it  was 
common,  it  was  normal.  There  was  nothing  for 
the  police  to  do.  From  a  group  that  had  stopped 
the  young  man  in  the  straw  hat  stepped  hastily, 
and  came  close  to  the  woman. 

"Come,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice,  "take  him 
home;  or  must  I  make  you?" 

She  looked  with  terror  in  the  speaker's  face. 
She  still  struggled  feebly  against  the  drover,  who 
held  her  now  by  the  wrists. 

"You  won't  do  as  I  tell  you?"  whispered  the 
young  man,  who  was  twirling  his  watch,  with  the 
chain  twisting  round  his  ringers,  "We'll  settle 
that  by  and  bye.  Take  him  home  now,  and  be 
quick!" 

Suddenly  she  succeeded  in  getting  her  wrists 
free  by  a  wrench,  turned,  and  ran  towards  the 
Cadereau.  A  few  cheers  followed  her,  but  she 
had  not  run  twenty  paces  when  the  drover 
caught  her  by  the  arm.  Together  they  turned 
off  the  Cours  de  la  Republique  into  one  of  the  side 
streets  of  the  workmen's  quarter.  The  young 
man,  who  had  also  turned  to  follow,  came  back ; 
and  one  of  the  two  women  walking  with  him 
watched  the  fragile  and  captive  figure  as  it  passed 
out  of  sight,  and  said  to  him  with  a  laugh: 

"You've  got  trouble  at  home,  I  see." 

"Yes,  I've  had  it  for  a  day  or  two.  It's  not 
going  to  last,  though.  I  shall  take  care  of 
that."  And  he  struck  his  fist  into  his  own  left 
hand. 

The  hot  night  dried  still  further  the  dry  streets, 


196  THE  NUN 

the  people  came  and  went,  seeking  the  open  ways 
and  hoping  for  a  wandering  breeze. 


It  was  five  o'clock,  and  the  summer  morn- 
ing was  limpid.  The  door  of  the  Prayous'  cot- 
tage, on  the  waste  land,  opened  to  give  egress  to 
the  feeble  figure  of  a  woman  who  leant  against  the 
door-post  as  though  she  had  turned  faint  in  the 
fresh  air.  But  there  was  no  wind,  and  the  day 
would  soon  be  burning.  The  woman  wore  her 
last  night's  dress,  but  on  her  shoulders  was  a 
little  shawl  that  fell  loose  on  either  side.  Pale 
she  was  and  thin,  and  in  her  face  was  no  pleasure 
at  the  beauty  of  the  summer  morning;  her  eyes 
were  entirely  sad.  She  pushed  before  her  a  wheel- 
barrow loaded  with  a  great  pile  of  linen  under  a 
sheet.  As  she  paused  to  shut  the  door  behind  her, 
her  eyes  ranged  over  all  the  windows  of  the  neigh- 
bouring houses.  All  the  women,  all  the  people 
behind  those  windows,  laughed  at  her,  she  thought. 
They  were  tenants  of  the  Prayous;  they  used  to 
bow  to  her  —  Madame  Rioul,  Madame  Lantosque, 
Madame  Cabeirol,  and  the  rest,  and  their  hus- 
bands, their  brothers,  their  lovers  ;  and  the  Mayols 
—  the  husband,  the  wife,  the  sister,  who  lived 
opposite;  they  all  laughed  at  her  now;  they 
knew  things  about  her.  They  had  seen  her 
going  down  all  those  months.  They  must  have 
heard  her  cry  out  in  the  night,  when  Jules  Prayou 
came  home  at  two  o'clock  and  beat  her;  when  he 
ran  after  her  up  the  stairs  ;  when  she  opened  the 
window  screaming  for  help.  No  doubt  they  were 


THE  NUN  197 

watching  her  now  from  behind  some  shutter. 
That  widow  Rioul,  who  went  out  working  by  the 
day — who  was  respectable,  and  boasted  of  it,  she 
was  old.  But  the  tailor's  wife  in  the  same  house, 
she  had  been  talked  about,  pretty  things  were  said 
of  her.  She  read  cheap  novels  all  day,  and  one 
could  see  it  in  her  face.  As  to  the  Cabeirols,  the 
little  tramway  employe  and  his  wife,  who  had 
taken  the  house  to  the  left,  what  had  they  to  say 
about  her?  People  who  had  not  paid  a  penny 
of  rent  for  six  months!  They  might  be  quiet, 
at  any  rate,  and  not  show  how  they  despised 
her.  Ah!  if  she  had  someone  to  protect  her — 
to  protect  her?  She  needed  to  be  loved.  But 
there  was  no  one  now  to  love  Pascale. 

She  took  up  her  burden,  crossed  the  waste 
land,  and  reached  the  road  leading  down  to  the 
torrent.  The  neighbours  had  not  yet  unclosed 
their  shutters.  One  man  only  was  watering  his 
garden.  Beyond  the  bridge,  on  the  quay,  very 
few  shops  were  open:  a  wine-shop  or  two,  and 
here  or  there  a  provision  shop  for  the  country 
people.  No  one  was  yet  at  the  public  washing- 
tank,  roofed  with  tiles,  by  the  bridge.  So  much 
the  better.  She  unloaded  her  barrow,  rolled  up 
her  sleeves,  knelt  at  the  nearest  place  by  the 
long  basin,  and  turned  the  tap  by  means  of 
which  the  rushing  stream  kept  those  useful  waters 
flowing.  A  woman  passed  down  the  road  in  a 
little  clanking  cart  full  of  milk  cans;  she  did  not 
turn  her  head  towards  the  tank,  and  took  no 
notice  of  the  girl  who  was  beginning  to  wash  the 
household  linen  of  Madame  Prayou.  A  long  train 


198  THE  NUN 

of  dust  followed  the  cart.  Pascale  dipped  her 
linen,  soaped  it,  beat  it  with  the  wooden  beater, 
but  was  obviously  unable  to  work  long;  after 
five  painful  minutes  she  stopped,  closed  her  eyes, 
and  hung  crouching  on  her  heels,  with  her  arms 
on  the  cement  edging  the  tank,  and  her  fingers 
in  the  running  water.  The  sun  began  to  burn  on 
the  tiled  roof;  the  shadows  of  the  houses  by  the 
waterside  grew  shorter  and  became  filled  with 
reflected  light. 

Little  was  left  of  the  aspect  of  that  Pascale 
who  thirteen  months  before  had  journeyed  to 
Nimes  in  search  of  what  she  needed — protection. 
Her  credulity,  her  imprudence,  a  pleasant  re- 
membrance still  sounding  in  her  heart  of  youth, 
had  brought  her  to  these  two  enemies.  They  had 
made  haste  to  corrupt  her,  and  with  how  many 
accomplices!  The  loss  of  the  example  of  her 
companions ;  the  loss  of  that  religious  Rule  which 
not  only  directed  the  will  but  practised  it,  so  that 
by  the  deliberate  election  of  every  hour  of  the  day 
it  grew  hi  force  and  dominance  over  self ;  the  loss 
of  the  tender,  the  pure,  the  intelligent  love  of  her 
Sisters;  grief  for  the  destruction  of  the  life  she 
had  chosen  and  of  the  work  that  made  life  worth 
while — all  these  things  served  the  purpose  of 
Jules  Prayou.  He  had  received  her  with  respect 
and  reserve;  he  had  kept  the  secret  of  her  past 
which  she  wished  to  mourn  over  alone  as  another 
woman  would  guard  the  memory  of  disappointed 
love;  he  had  taken  her  part  against  the  preju- 
dice of  the  grudging  neighbours,  slow  to  admit  a 
stranger;  and  he  had  given  her — unused  to  pos- 


THE  NUN  199 

sess  anything — presents  that  to  her,  poor  girl, 
seemed  noble.  By  degrees,  yet  soon  enough,  she 
had  been  undone.  Brief  was  her  error,  but  it 
could  not  be  effaced.  On  the  morrow  the  sense 
of  the  irreparable  grasped  her ;  it  had  never  again 
let  her  go.  It  came  with  the  first  remorse;  it 
turned  repentance  to  despair.  It  was  now  all- 
dominant. 

"How  did  I  fall?"  she  said  throughout  the 
miserable  days.  "  Unhappy  Pascale!  To  have 
been  what  I  have  been,  to  be  what  I  am.  To 
have  had  that  mother,  that  dear  father,  the 
companionship  of  saints !  To  have  been  honoured, 
respected,  cherished,  and  now  to  have  to  avoid 
the  eyes  of  all  chaste  women!  To  have  been  an 
elect  one,  to  be  a  traitress!  Well  did  I  know — a 
girl  of  eighteen — my  own  weakness.  My  call  to 
the  life  of  the  cloister  was  only  distrust  of  myself, 
with  which  He  whom  I  can  no  longer  name  had 
been  good  enough  to  mingle  a  little  love  of  divine 
things.  All  is  over  and  done,  all  is  wrecked.  The 
only  future  I  hoped  for  is  barred.  Even  if  better 
things  came  again,  and  the  convents  were  opened, 
and  the  nuns  went  back,  there  would  never, 
never,  never  be  any  place  for  me.  Who  would 
let  me  teach  little  girls  how  to  be  good  and  to 
resist  temptation?  I  am  down,  and  I  shall  never 
rise.  I  am  the  condemned  one  for  ever,  for  ever; 
I  am  the  lost  one." 

Soon,  too,  she  had  tasted  the  bitterness  of  the 
full  knowledge  of  the  plot  against  her.  Brief 
had  been  the  illusion  of  love;  she  was  hated, 
not  loved.  And  she  knew  that  mother  and  son 


200  THE  NUN 

had  worked  together  for  her  fall.  She  was  the 
mother's  servant,  and  hi  a  more  terrible  sense 
the  slave  of  the  son.  When  the  time  was  ripe 
he  would  use  his  power  over  her  beauty  and  her 
youth  to  the  utmost,  to  the  last,  to  the  lowest. 
He  was  a  needy  man,  and  she  was  to  make  money 
for  him.  She  attempted  a  last  resistance.  She 
wished  to  kill  herself,  but  she  was  a  lost  soul  and 
in  mortal  fear  of  the  grave.  That  at  least  must 
be  put  off.  Could  she  fly  from  the  hateful  house? 
Jules  Prayou  had  taken  means  to  hold  her. 

Of  all  she  said,  of  all  she  did,  he  was  apprised. 
Pascale  felt  herself  surrounded  by  a  network  of 
treason.  Her  master  was  a  man  to  be  feared, 
and  many  did  fear  him.  This  young  man, 
without  avowable  means  of  life,  without  reputa- 
tion, and  without  work,  had  innumerable  ac- 
complices, had  surrounded  himself  with  con- 
nivances. He  held  the  district — not  only  the 
suburb  of  Montauri,  but  the  neighbourhood  of 
the  slaughter-houses,  and  all  the  region  of  the 
cattle  and  sheep  market.  Though  he  took  no 
open  part  hi  politics,  several  political  agents 
paid  him  a  covert  court.  They  said:  "It  is 
not  a  good  thing  to  have  Prayou  against  us." 
At  election  time  he  was  flush  of  money.  The 
very  police  agents  who  had  been  charged  to 
keep  a  watch  on  him  had  entered  into  treaty 
with  him — the  man  of  whom  all  crime  was  sus- 
pected and  no  crime  known.  With  him  they 
could  enter  into  doubtful  wine-shops  where  he 
was  all-powerful,  could  drink  without  payment, 
and  Jules  Prayou  helped  them  in  inquisitions 


THE  NUN  201 

they  could  not  entirely  evade.  At  this  price  he 
purchased  liberty  from  surveillance  for  himself. 
Smugglers  of  alcohol  made  use  of  his  experience 
and  of  his  knowledge  of  men  and  places ;  poachers 
found  him  an  expert  middle-man.  The  owners 
of  olive-orchards  knew  that  for  a  fee  to  him  they 
would  be  tolerably  well  guaranteed  against  thieves ; 
at  any  rate,  the  whole  of  their  crop  would  not  dis- 
appear. When  the  tall  young  fellow  with  the 
soft  dark  eyes  walked  through  the  district  all 
saluted  him  on  the  way,  and  many  hats,  even,  were 
raised.  He  answered  with  a  word  or  with  a  sweep 
of  the  eyelid,  according  to  the  importance  of  the 
case.  Women  looked  at  him.  Newspaper-sellers 
left  the  pavement  to  him;  the  gypsies,  who  kept 
their  tribe  close,  gave  him  welcome  to  their  camp ; 
wandering  musicians  and  all  kinds  of  beggars, 
true  and  false  alike,  tried  to  get  his  favour. 
And  all  these  people  kept  him  informed.  They 
said:  "I  saw  your  girl  at  the  fountain  garden. 

I  saw  her  on  the  Saint  Cesaire  road."    Nor  did 
Pascale  ever  go  out  without  leave  or  without  a 
time  fixed  for  her  return. 

She  was  indeed  the  slave,  longing  to  revolt, 
but  held  in  deadly  fear.  She  had  grown  so  pallid 
and  was  so  wasted  that  the  neighbours  said, 

II  What  a  face!    She  won't  last  long  at  this  rate." 
She  never  saw  Prayou  but  a  nervous  trembling 
seized  her;  at  times  it  did  not  leave  her  for  hours. 
She  had  her  cough;  she  often  felt  feverish;  she 
had  frequent  painful  languor  in  her  limbs.    Her 
faltering  blood  left  her  helpless  against  her  tyrant. 

But  immeasurably  more  dreadful  was  the  dis- 


202  THE  NUN 

tress  of  her  soul,  for  here  was  indeed  despair. 
She  fought  away  her  memories  ten  times,  twenty 
times,  a  hundred  times ;  they  returned:  at  day- 
break, at  dusk,  at  the  mid-day  bells,  in  those 
moments  of  respite  that  would  formerly  have 
been  filled  with  peace.  At  the  suggestion  of  a 
face  or  the  sound  of  a  voice  the  idea  came  in  spite 
of  her: 

"Getting-up  time — Sister  Leonide  is  pulling 
the  bell.  The  Angelus — we  are  going  across  to 
the  church.  Now  it  is  the  meditation.  The 
sun  is  setting — the  little  girls  are  gone.  Edwige, 
my  beloved!  Sister  Danielle!  And  you  on  whom 
we  all  depended — our  Mother,  Justine!  Oh,  the 
horror!  Oh,  the  profanation!  I  never  will  see 
you  again.  Keep  away  from  my  pit,  you  holy 
ones,  keep  away!" 

All  was  gone,  all  was  lost — liberty,  the  light 
heart,  even  the  beauty  and  brightness  of  those 
eyes,  those  golden  eyes,  where  the  look  of  youth 
was  quenched.  All  had  changed  except  some- 
thing of  her  love  of  children.  She  had  been  so 
fond  of  them,  their  confidence,  their  kisses. 

What  a  weight  of  grief  she  must  put  aside  so 
that  she  might  work  to-day.  Work,  for  what? 
for  whom? 

The  morning  was  wearing  on;  all  the  shops 
were  open;  the  nets  were  hung  out  before  their 
doors  to  keep  off  the  flies.  Pascale  made  another 
effort,  raised  her  head,  and  resumed  her  washing 
of  the  linen  she  had  left  steeping  in  the  tank. 
A  black  figure  coming  from  the  bridge  darkened 
the  sunshine  for  a  moment  and  passed  on.  It  was 


THE  NUN  203 

the  widow  Rioul  with  her  air  of  ladylike  poverty. 
She  went  out  early  for  her  work  in  two  households, 
and  was  also  accustomed  to  hear  daily  mass  at 
St.  Paul's.  She  had  not  seen  Pascale,  it  seemed. 
In  any  case,  she  went  her  way,  the  edge  of  her 
black  dress  already  white  with  dust.  Since  the 
day,  now  some  months  ago,  when  she  had  vent- 
ured to  warn  Pascale,  "I  advise  you  to  be  care- 
ful, Mademoiselle;  people  are  talking  about  you," 
and  had  been  repulsed,  the  old  woman  had  not 
spoken  to  her.  She  crossed  the  open  space 
beyond  the  tank  and  disappeared  into  the  streets. 
The  cigalas  were  many  and  noisy.  The  woman 
at  her  washing  unfastened  the  neck  of  her  blue 
bodice,  for  the  heat.  She  heard  voices  coming 
down  the  hill  from  Montauri,  young  voices  that 
she  knew,  and  she  named  the  speakers  to  herself 
as  they  drew  near:  Marie  Lantosque,  a  tenant  of 
the  Prayous ;  Madame  Mayol,  who  lived  opposite ; 
and  her  sister,  a  young  girl  who  was  about  to  be 
married.  The  three  women  crossed  the  bridge, 
and  as  they  passed  the  tank  they  turned  to  Pascale 
without  stopping:  "Good  morning,"  they  cried, 
in  patois,  "Good  morning,  Madame  Pascau!  It 
will  be  hot  enough  in  another  hour." 

They  were  laughing  together,  and  Pascale  fol- 
lowed them  with  her  eyes,  wringing  her  linen  with 
her  two  weary  hands.  "They  spoke  to  me,"  she 
thought,  "they  don't  want  to  show  too  clearly  how 
they  despise  me.  But  what  are  they  thinking 
about  me  all  the  time?  Madame  Lantosque 
seemed  to  be  mocking  me,  I  thought." 

She  suffered  as  she  invented  a  conversation 


204  THE  NUN 

among  the  three.  She  had  so  lost  reasonable 
control  that  she  began  to  fight  with  her  work, 
beating  the  linen  in  a  bitter  and  helpless  rage. 
For  a  time  anger  gave  her  strength.  To  have 
done — to  have  done  with  it  all — that  was  her 
impotent  desire.  And  as  she  worked,  exhausting 
herself,  a  child,  a  light,  a  joy,  came  under  the 
shadow  of  the  roof.  It  was  little  Delphine 
Cabeirol,  whom  they  called  Finette,  a  girl  of  ten, 
gay,  spirited,  with  sombre,  long  hair  and  lovely 
eyes,  green  as  olives,  and  full  of  childish  surprise. 
Why  had  she  come?  She  went  leaping  down  the 
passage  where  the  places  are  set  for  the  women 
to  kneel  at  their  work,  holding  a  little  parcel  in  her 
hand ;  suddenly,  seeing  the  neighbour,  the  woman 
to  whom  her  mother  had  forbidden  her  to  speak, 
she  stopped.  She  was  embarrassed,  and  began  to 
unknot  her  bundle  quietly,  keeping  her  head  down. 
Madame  Pascale  was  so  busy  beating  and  soap- 
ing and  dipping  that  perhaps  she  had  not  seen 
her.  No,  she  had  paused  in  her  labour;  and  the 
eyes  that  should  have  been  so  soft  dwelt  upon  her. 
Madame  Pascale  withdrew  her  hands  from  the 
water,  and  let  them  rest  on  her  wet  apron.  She 
knelt,  her  thin  figure  slightly  towards  Delphine, 
but  did  not  smile  as  women  do  when  they  want 
a  kiss  from  a  child;  nevertheless,  in  her  sad  face 
was  an  urgent  invitation.  Both  were  so  quiet  that 
the  humming  mosquitoes  made  more  noise  than 
they.  Pascale  looked  timorous,  as  though  she 
might  frighten  the  girl  away — as  one  watches  a 
bird.  And  it  was  Delphine  who  spoke  first  when 
she  saw  tears  coming  into  the  eyes  she  met.  Her 


THE  NUN  205 

little  things  were  before  her,  and  a  large  lump 
of  soap.  She  was  rather  a  Provencale  than  a 
Nimoise,  and  she  used  the  gentle,  old-fashioned 
Provencale  salutation  as  she  said: 

"Good  morning,  Madame  Pascale.  I  have 
brought  these  things  for  my  mother,  and  she  is 
coming  too."  She  bowed  her  clear,  pale  face, 
which  rose  again  like  the  ivory  key  of  a  piano,  and 
was  about  to  go. 

"Tell  me,  Delphine,  have  you  had  leave  to 
speak  to  me  this  morning?" 

"No,"  said  the  child,  over  her  shoulder. 

"Then  you  saw  I  was  unhappy,  and  that  was 
why  you  said  'Good  morning,'  was  it?" 

Delphine  looked  "yes." 

"I  guessed  that  was  why.  I  know  little  girls — 
I  used  to  know  them  so  well.  You  are  quite  right 
if  you  think  I  am  unhappy.  I  am  very  unhappy." 

The  beautiful  large  olive-coloured  eyes  were 
veiled  with  feeling. 

"Everyone  is  very  wicked  to  me,  Delphine. 
Will  you  be  kind,  little  Delphine?" 

The  child  twisted  her  hands  uneasily,  and  again 
looked  what  she  did  not  speak.  "What  do  you 
want  me  to  do?  It  makes  me  unhappy  too  to 
see  you  so  dreadfully  sad,  and  I  don't  under- 
stand— .  If  you  want  me  to  do  something  I  can 
do  without  being  too  disobedient — I  will  be  a 
little  disobedient  if  you  like." 

"I  only  want  you  to  come  and  kiss  me,  little 
Delphine.  No,  no.  I  don't  mean  that.  Give 
me  your  hand,  just  your  hand,  will  you?  It 
would  do  me  good.  Nobody  loves  me." 


206  THE  NUN 

The  child  smiled.  Was  that  all?  She  came, 
with  her  two  hands  out,  to  be  kissed.  But  before 
she  reached  Pascale,  she  halted,  listened,  skipped 
on  her  light  feet,  and  fled. 

"There's  mother/'  she  said,  and  in  three 
bounds  she  was  at  the  other  end  of  the  passage, 
then  on  the  sunny  road.  Pascale  heard  some 
rapid  words  in  dialect  between  Delphine,  who 
was  defending  herself,  and  her  mother,  who  was 
chiding;  and  Madame  Cabeirol  entered.  She 
shifted  her  child's  things  so  that  she  should  be 
further  away  from  "that  creature."  Neverthe- 
less, she  said  as  the  others  had  done,  "Good 
morning,  Madame  Pascale,"  but  spoke  the  words 
hurriedly  and  low,  so  that  Pascale  did  not  hear 
them.  She  was  a  Provencale  of  the  small,  dry, 
thin  and  vivid  type.  She  felt  herself,  as  a  married 
woman,  much  superior  to  Pascale.  She  disap- 
proved of  the  disorderly  life  of  the  Prayous,  and 
their  extravagant  expenditure,  with  an  entirely 
human  disapproval,  unconnected  with  religion. 
But  she  made  no  show  of  it,  being  a  tenant  of  the 
Prayous,  and  a  tenant  much  in  arrears  with  the 
rent.  She  would  have  cut  the  neighbourhood  long 
since,  she  said,  if  the  times  had  not  been  so  bad 
with  Cabeirol.  Even  so,  she  would  have  to  go 
some  day  soon,  on  account  of  her  girl,  who  was 
sharp  and  forward,  and  who  would  soon  under- 
stand what  was  going  on.  Meantime,  until  her 
husband  got  a  better  place  with  the  tramway 
company,  she  must  put  up  with  it,  but  it  would  be 
pleasant  to  have  more  respectable  neighbours. 
She  knelt  down  and  began  to  rub,  to  beat,  and 


THE   NUN  207 

to  soap,  as  Pascale  was  doing.  And  Pascale, 
angry  at  the  child's  flight,  took  no  notice  of  her. 
She  had  straightened  her  own  dress  with  a  hasty 
hand.  This  woman  must  indeed  despise  her,  to 
forbid  a  child  of  ten  to  speak  to  her.  "Cruel, 
cruel!  Why  should  one  woman  so  insult  another? 
one  woman  so  fortunate  as  she,"  thought  Pascale, 
"and  another  so  unhappy  as  I.  If  she  could  see 
something  beyond  the  life  I  am  leading,  if  she 
could  see  my  heart,  and  the  infinite  disgust,  and 
the  loathing — what  am  I  thinking  of?  If  she 
knew  what  I  really  am,  what  I  was,  she  would 
despise  me  more  than  she  does  a  hundred  times. 
She  would  hold  my  head  under  that  water  and 
drown  me,  and  put  an  end  to  me." 

The  two  women  worked.  The  sun,  reflected 
from  the  bright  white  road  and  from  the  water 
in  the  basin,  lighted  their  worn  faces  from  below. 
Madame  Cabeirol's  was  lined  by  poverty,  faded 
by  years  of  hard  life,  ill  nourished.  Pascale's 
showed  the  clear  signs  of  disease;  there  was  an 
ominous  transparence  in  her  white  cheek,  in  the 
delicate  ears  that  might  have  been  those  of  an 
alabaster  statue,  and  in  her  hands  that  looked  so 
slender  in  the  running  water. 

A  few  people  passed  by.  The  noise  of  the 
streets  went  on ;  mothers  were  heard  calling  their 
children  into  the  shade. 

Pascale's  arms  grew  lax.  She  coughed,  with  a 
little  dry  cough,  as  though  her  chest  lacked 
strength  for  a  greater  effort.  Then  suddenly  she 
fell  back  on  her  heels,  her  breast  rising,  her 
nostrils  blue  and  dilated,  her  eyes  fixed  and  full 


208  THE  NUN 

of  anguish.  In  a  few  moments  she  leaned  her 
shoulder  against  the  wall  at  her  side.  Madame 
Cabeirol  finished  her  wringing  of  Delphine's  little 
nightgowns,  because  it  is  not  good  manners  to  take 
any  notice  of  people,  if  they  are  not  one's  own 
relations,  at  such  times  as  these.  After  a  while, 
however,  she  glanced  at  Pascale,  for  the  fit  had 
passed  and  the  girl  was  setting  to  work  again, 
gathering  the  clothes  she  had  washed,  to  take 
them  away  for  drying.  Then  pity  spoke ;  for  her 
neighbour  was  obviously  exhausted.  The  woman 
was  impulsive,  and  it  vexed  her  to  see  even 
those  she  disliked  suffer  beyond  a  certain  degree 
of  pain. 

"Oh,"  she  said,  "are  you  not  ill,  Madame  Pas- 
cale?" 

Pascale  replied:  "What  does  it  matter  to 
you?  Ill  or  not,  I've  got  to  go  on." 

Madame  Cabeirol's  compassion  was  proof  against 
the  hard  answer,  and  she  said : 

"I  might  help  you  to  put  your  things  to  dry. 
I  have  very  little  to  do  this  morning  as  it  happens. 
I've  done  already." 

She  showed  her  heap  of  clean  linen. 

"I  am  not  used  to  being  helped,"  said  Pascale, 
"but  if  you  have  time  to  waste  you  can  do  as  you 
like." 

Madame  Cabeirol  left  her  place,  and  began  to 
pile  the  chemises  and  shirts,  handkerchiefs,  towels 
and  petticoats  that  Pascale  had  washed.  Rather 
stupefied  than  touched,  Pascale  watched  her, 
wondering  why  she  did  it.  She  stood  idle — it 
was  enough  labour  to  draw  her  breath.  The 


THE  NUN  209 

silence  at  last  irritated  Madame  Cabeirol's  nerves, 
and  she  said  snappishly : 

"  All  the  same,  your  being  in  trouble  is  no  reason 
for  treating  people  as  though  they  were  dogs,  is  it?  " 

"Trouble?"  said  Pascale,  turning  her  eyes  on 
her  neighbour's  face.  "What  do  you  know  about 
my  trouble?" 

"Do  you  suppose  I  can't  guess  it  pretty  well? 
A  young  thing  like  you  shouldn't  look  so  unhappy 
as  you  do." 

Pascale  kept  the  hard  aspect  she  had,  but  she 
seemed  to  listen.  It  was  the  first  time  anyone 
had  had  compassion  upon  her  since  the  day  on 
which  she  had  come  beneath  the  roof  of  Jules 
Prayou.  Four  old  laundry-women  by  profession, 
all  talking,  came  in  at  that  moment  and  took  their 
customary  places. 

"At  your  age,"  continued  Madame  Cabeirol, 
coming  close,  with  her  dark,  quick,  vivacious  head 
close  to  the  fair  abandoned  young  head  of  Pascale. 
"At  your  age,  and  with  your  looks — you've  got 
some  good  looks  left,  you  know — ought  you  to  let 
them  treat  you  as  they  do?" 

"You  heard,  then,  last  night,  or  the  other 
nights?" 

"Suppose  I  did.    He  beat  you,  didn't  he?" 

"Yes,  he  beat  me." 

"You  know  it's  not  nice — it's  a  bad  business 
—what  he  makes  you  do,  I  mean.  I  may  not 
be  exactly  religious,  and  I  allow  that  a  woman 
has  a  right  to  do  what  she  chooses  with  her  own 
body.  But  all  the  same,  if  you  were  married  to 
him,  he  would  have  to  treat  you  better." 


210  THE  NUN 

Pascale  recoiled. 

"  Married  to  someone  else,  then,  Madame 
Pascale.  Not  to  him  if  you  don't  like  him. 
Don't  get  angry.  You  would  get  some  one  easily 
enough.  Now,  look  at  me — 

Pascale  seized  her  arm.  "  Never  to  him,  never 
to  any  other,  never!" 

"Not  married  already,  are  you?" 

"No,  no." 

"Well,  then?" 

Pascale  made  an  effort,  took  up  some  of  the 
linen,  and  said: 

' ' Don't  mind  me.  I  can't  get  rid  of  my  trouble. 
I  brought  it  on  myself,  and  when  one  does  that, 
one  has  to  suffer,  that's  all.  One  has  to  die, 
anyway.  Yes,  help  me  to  put  out  my  things  to 
dry,  if  you  will  be  so  kind.  It's  all  you  can  do 
for  me." 

The  woman  stood  up,  saying  under  her  breath: 

"I  should  run  away — wouldn't  I  run? — if 
Cabeirol  so  much  as  lifted  a  hand — 

The  two  women  went  out  together,  each  carry- 
ing an  armful  of  white  linen,  and  on  the  rounded 
top  of  the  long,  low  wall  that  skirts  the  stream 
they  spread  it  to  the  sun.  All  white  things  in  that 
light — the  whitewash  of  the  walls,  even  the  white 
pebbles  in  the  water,  seemed  to  flame  and  shine. 
Dust  rose  here  and  there  apparently  without  any 
wind.  A  wild  impulse  seemed  to  carry  it  upwards. 
All  things  that  live  for  light  were  full  of  their  joy 
—flies  of  all  sorts  and  sizes,  innumerable  cigalas 
and  grass-hoppers  by  the  stream-side.  Eleven 
o'clock  had  struck  some  time  since.  A  few  chil- 


THE  NUN  211 

dren  were  straggling  up  the  hill  towards  Montauri, 
and,  more  slowly  after  them,  men  and  women 
weary  with  their  hot  morning  in  the  work-rooms. 

Down  the  hill  came  one  woman,  a  stranger. 
She  walked  from  Montauri  towards  the  city. 
She  wore  a  clumsy  and  shabby  black  woollen 
dress,  heavy,  horribly  hot.  In  spite  of  the  heat, 
and  in  spite  of  the  sweat  that  bathed  her  face, 
she  had  a  little  black  veil.  As  she  came  near  the 
bridge  she  met  Madame  Cabeirol,  now  empty- 
handed. 

"Will  you  give  me  some  information  I  want, 
dear  lady?"  asked  the  stranger. 

"At  your  service,"  replied  the  thin  Provengale, 
peering  through  the  veil. 

"You  may  know  a  woman  named  Pascale 
Mouvand?" 

"Mouvand?  I  can't  say.  People  round  here 
would  be  more  likely  to  call  her  Pascale  Prayou," 
said  the  woman,  with  a  laugh. 

The  other  did  not  laugh.  She  said:  "That  is 
the  person  I  am  in  search  of.  I  have  just  come 
from  the  house  where  she  lives.  They  told  me 
she  was  washing  at  the  tank.  Is  that  true?" 

"There  she  is,"  said  Madame  Cabeirol,  pointing 
to  the  women  at  work.  "That  is  the  one,  just 
stooping  now  to  pick  up  some  more  of  her  things. 
Shall  I  call  her?" 

"Oh,  no ;  oh,  no!    Wait  a  little." 

The  Proven§ale  was  surprised  at  the  emotion 
caused  by  those  simple  words.  The  stranger 
grasped  at  her  own  throat  as  though  she  could 
hardly  get  her  breath,  trying  the  while  to  make 


212  T  H  E  N  U  N 

out  the  figure  she  sought,  at  some  twenty  yards'  dis- 
tance, under  the  tiled  roof.  But  she  shook  her  head. 

"My  eyes,"  she  said,  "are  not  very  good  to- 
day. I  can't  see  her.  Will  you  tell  her  that  one 
of  her  friends  is  here  and  wants  her?  I  shall  wait 
behind  this  wall,  by  the  bridge." 

She  walked  on  into  the  secluded  space  formed 
by  the  parapets  of  the  torrent  and  the  bridge, 
and  by  the  wall  enclosing  the  washing-place, 
while  Madame  Cabeirol  went  in.  Two  minutes 
had  hardly  passed.  The  noise  of  the  beating 
of  the  linen  went  on  steadily,  and  the  women 
were  chattering  without  a  pause;  through  all 
sang  the  fresh  and  clear  voice  of  the  running 
water.  In  the  great  vast  sunshine  waited  the 
stranger  in  black,  hearing  nothing,  conscious  of 
but  one  thought,  one  name,  one  image,  one 
appeal,  and  all  was  gathered  up  in  one  prayer— 
"Ave  Maria."  It  was  never  finished.  She  whom 
she  sought  and  desired  came  out,  and  seeing  the 
stranger,  whose  veil  still  left  her  face  recognisable, 
knowing  her,  knowing  her  one  friend,  her  mother, 
cried  out  like  a  child  in  terror.  Her  eyes  dilated 
with  a  look  of  anguish.  She  fell  back  against  the 
wall,  her  hands  flat  against  its  face. 

"You,  you!"  she  panted;  and  the  old  woman, 
with  infinite  and  immeasurable  love,  called  her, 
very  low,  very  low,  by  the  old  name : 

"Sister  Pascale?" 

She  drew  near  to  the  lost  one,  she  held  forth 
those  familiar  arms.  But  Pascale  pushed  her  off 
and  hid  her  head  in  her  hands. 

"No,  don't  come  near  me.    Go  away,  go  away ! " 


THE  NUN  213 

"Pascale,  I  know  you  are  unhappy.  I  have 
come  to  take  you  away." 

"Don't  speak  to  me.  Go  away.  You  don't 
know,  you  don't  know  what  I  am." 

"  I  do  know.    You  are  my  Pascale." 

"I  am  not.  I  am  another  creature.  I  am 
something  else.  You  can't  take  me  back.  I  am 
damned,  I  am  cursed.  Go  away!" 

She  was  crushing  her  bare  face,  her  bare  arms, 
against  the  wall. 

Sister  Justine  touched  her  shoulder. 

"I  want  you  to  come,  in  the  sacred  name  of 
the  Mercy  that  has  sent  me." 

"No,  never." 

"I  shall  take  you  by  force." 

"No— no." 

Pascale  ran  out  into  the  road.  But  the  old 
woman  caught  her,  seized  her  by  the  wrist,  drew 
her  to  her  breast,  held  her  there,  and  when  she 
felt  the  fair  head  stuggled  no  more,  but  lay  hidden 
on  her  shoulder,  she  said: 

"Pascale,  all  our  Sisters  have  prayed  for  you. 
Sister  Danielle  has  suffered." 

She  stopped  for  an  answer,  and  could  hear  stifled 
words  more  painful  to  listen  to  than  cries,  and 
more  heart-piercing: 

"I  can't,  I  can't  be  saved." 

"Pascale,  Sister  Leonide  is  working  for  you." 

Pascale  spoke  no  more,  but  tried  to  wrench 
herself  from  those  maternal  arms.  Desperately 
Justine  pleaded  again: 

"Pascale,  your  own  Sister  Edwige  is  undergoing 
a  martyrdom  for  you.  She  offers  it  for  you.  It  is 


214  THE  NUN 

she  who  urged  me  to  come.  You  must  not  with- 
stand her;  let  her  save  you." 

Pascale,  half-hidden  in  the  old  Sister's  cloak, 
ceased  to  strain  against  her  arms. 

"Take  me  away,  then,"  she  whispered  at  last. 

Sister  Edwige  had  won.  The  absent  ones 
were  there.  Pascale  raised  her  head,  as  though 
regaining  her  hold  on  life  after  delirium,  put  her 
hand  to  her  disordered  hair,  glancing  furtively 
between  her  fingers  to  see  if  anyone  were  looking. 
There  were  witnesses:  workmen,  shopmen  from 
the  quay,  the  women  from  the  tank,  and  all 
watched  with  keen  curiosity  these  two — one  of 
them  a  stranger,  who  had  seemed  to  be  quarrelling 
with  the  girl,  and  then  had  followed  that  close 
embrace. 

"Oh,"  said  Pascale,  "how  difficult  it  will  be 
to  get  away!  and  all  the  linen  out  there,  and 
Madame  Cabeirol  who  will  ask  where  I  am  going, 
and  the  others 

She  was  pulling  down  her  sleeves  mechanically. 
Sister  Justine  straightened  her  old  cloak. 

"Come,  child,"  she  repeated,  "come!" 

They  left  the  place.  Sister  Justine  had  Pas- 
cale's  arm  under  hers.  Pascale  was  now  weep- 
ing, in  spite  of  herself — people  were  looking  at 
her.  They  were  saying:  "What  is  the  matter 
with  her?  Why  is  she  going?  Who  is  the  old 
woman?" 

"Come  quicker,"  said  Justine. 

The  groups  parted  to  let  them  pass,  and  their 
feet  were  on  the  pavement  of  the  road  when 
Pascale  heard  a  man  running. 


THE  NUN  215 

'There  he  is,"  she  panted;  "it  is  all  over;  I 
am  lost.  Run  away,  Mother,  run  away!" 

The  old  name  of  mother  had  broken  from  her 
heart.  Sister  Justine  turned  and  placed  Pascale 
behind  her. 

" Don't,  don't,"  said  Pascale,  "go  no  nearer. 
He  might  kill  you." 

Jules  Prayou,  by  an  authoritative  gesture, 
called  up  the  spectators.  They  came  running,  as 
though  bidden  by  him  to  a  show.  He  wore  his 
insolent  air,  his  hard  look,  his  false  composure. 
His  jaw  was  twisted  with  anger.  He  went  close 
to  Pascale,  taking  no  notice  of  the  old  woman  who 
covered  her. 

"Go  home!"  he  ordered.  "You  were  running 
away,  were  you?  You  shall  see  what  comes  of 
that.  Go  home,  do  you  hear  me?" 

He  pointed  the  way.  Sister  Justine  pressed 
forward,  her  large  courageous  face  defying  him. 

"Go  home  yourself!"  she  said. 

"And  why,  pray?" 

"Because  I  am  taking  her  away." 

Prayou  scanned  her. 

"You  are,  old  woman?  And  who  may  you 
be?" 

"I  am  her  mother." 

"That  is  not  true;  she  has  no  mother." 

"I  hold  that  place.  And  you,  then,  what  are 
you?" 

"I  am  her  lover." 

"Go,  get  yourself  another  mistress,  then;  this 
one  is  going." 

"You  thief,  I'll  stop  you!"  cried  the  man. 


216  THE  NUN 

"Go  for  the  police!"  shouted  Sister  Justine. 
"Help  us,  all  good  people!" 

Heads  appeared  at  the  windows.  A  group 
of  masons  who  were  lunching  in  a  tavern  ran  out 
eating  their  bread.  They  saw  a  shabby  woman, 
much  embarrassed  by  her  clothes,  out  of  breath, 
flushed,  opposing  foot  to  foot  the  great  Prayou, 
the  king  of  the  suburb.  They  saw  him  put  her 
aside  with  a  single  turn  of  his  hand  and  catch  by 
the  arms,  close  under  the  shoulders,  the  ashen-pale 
and  shuddering  Pascale,  who  was  straining  her 
head  back,  recoiling  from  him.  They  were  inclined, 
somewhat  timidly,  to  take  the  woman's  part. 

"Come,  don't  hurt  the  girl,  Monsieur  Prayou," 
said  someone.  "Let  the  woman  speak.  Don't 
hold  the  girl  in  that  way,  or  she  may  faint.  She 
is  free,  after  all,  like  the  rest  of  us." 

"Free,  is  she?  Who  said  that?"  cried  Prayou, 
turning  his  head  to  search  the  crowd  with  his  eyes, 
but  keeping  his  hold. 

The  crowd  was  willing  to  hear.  The  old  stranger, 
parted  from  Pascale,  tried  in  vain  to  reach  her 
again. 

"You  see  that  old  thief  who  has  been  to  my 
house,"  said  Prayou's  dominant  voice,  "and  who 
has  come  down  here  to  get  this  girl.  Go  and  fetch 
the  police — that's  just  what  I  want  you  to  do. 
Pascale  will  say  whether  she  wants  to  stay  with 
me  or  not.  Answer,  Pascale!" 

He  dug  with  his  ringers  between  the  muscles 
of  her  arms.  She  pulled  back,  with  her  look 
of  terror,  but  said  nothing.  The  crowd  repeated 
louder,  "Let  her  go,  then,  let  her  go!" 


THE  NUN  217 

"You  do  want  to  stay?  Say  so!"  repeated  the 
man  over  the  convulsed  face  of  Pascale.  "A 
girl  who  is  my  own  relative,  whom  I  took  in  when 
she  had  not  a  penny,  whom  I  have  kept  ever 
since — come,  tell  them  you  want  to  stay,"  he 
said  again. 

The  pale  lips  answered  at  last: 

"  No,  I  don 't .     I  want  to  go  with  Sister  Justine . ' ' 

A  cry  rose  from  the  crowd:  "Poor  girl,  poor 
girl!  Hear  what  she  says!" 

Sister  Justine  strove  to  speak.  The  crowd  was 
divided  in  opinion.  "He  is  right."  "No,  no. 
The  girl  has  a  right  to  go!"  Women  were  crying 
out,  raising  clenched  fists.  Then  Prayou,  lifting 
his  lofty  head,  cried  louder  than  the  clamour: 

"I'll  have  you  to  know  the  whole  story.  You 
see  that  old  woman.  She  is  out  of  her  convent; 
she  was  a  nun,  and  Pascale  was  another.  The 
Government  set  this  girl  free,  and  the  old  woman 
wants  to  force  her  back  to  a  nunnery.  Now, 
friends,  her  nunnery  is  in  my  house,  and  I  mean 
to  take  her  home." 

He  stooped,  took  Pascale  under  the  knees  and 
round  the  waist,  and  carried  her  off  like  a  sack, 
for  she  had  lost  consciousness.  The  crowd  parted 
for  him,  and  closed  again  around  Sister  Justine. 

"Settle  that  woman's  business!"  he  cried  to 
them,  over  his  shoulder. 

Followed  by  one  or  two  women,  he  strode  to- 
wards Montauri,  up  the  road  that  led  home. 
Behind  him  he  heard  the  noise  of  the  crowd  that 
was  hustling  the  woman  in  mourning,  assailing 
her  with  the  name  of  thief  and  ex-nun,  pushing 


218  THE  NUN 

her  towards  the  street,  and  remembering — some 
of  them — the  denunciations  of  convents  which 
they  had  heard  at  anti-clerical  meetings;  these 
insulted,  in  the  person  of  the  stranger,  her  re- 
ligious past. 

Jules  Prayou  went  home  with  his  burden, 
pushed  open  the  door,  traversed  the  corridor, 
the  feet  and  the  skirt  of  Pascale  grazing  the  wall 
as  he  went. 

"What  are  you  carrying?  What,  Pascale? 
Has  she  had  an  accident?  What's  the  matter?" 

His  mother  was  still  screaming  after  him  when 
he  was  at  the  other  side  of  the  court,  under  his 
own  roof,  in  the  little  building  that  looked  on  the 
waste  land.  He  was  tottering  and  exhausted. 
His  foot  struck  the  second  of  the  two  doorsteps, 
and  he  was  nearly  thrown  down.  Exasperated, 
alone,  without  witnesses,  he  lifted  with  a  last  effort 
of  his  strength  the  body  of  the  girl  and  hurled  it 
violently  against  the  wall  where  the  stairs  began. 
Her  head  and  her  bosom  struck  the  wall,  then  the 
helpless  figure  fell  upon  the  boards,  heaped  upon 
the  lowest  stair,  the  feet  on  the  threshold. 

She  was  conscious,  but  she  had  not  screamed; 
she  groaned  once,  and  then  made  no  more  sound, 
and  moved  no  more.  Her  face  was  in  the  shadow, 
turned  to  the  wall.  A  thread  of  blood  crept  from 
her  mouth.  Prayou  stooped  to  look,  and  called 
to  his  mother,  who  came  running  from  her  room. 

"Well,  it's  an  accident.  She  was  going  up 
stairs  and  she  fell." 

"You  helped  her  to  that  accident,  you  brute!" 

"Suppose  I  did!    She  was  running  away,  do 


THE  NUN  219 

you  hear?  I  caught  her.  I  am  not  sorry  that 
she  should  know  what  comes  of  provoking  me. 
Leave  both  our  doors  open,  and  don't  you  meddle 
and  take  that  girl's  part,  mother,  I  warn  you." 

He  looked  askance,  narrowing  his  eyes,  and 
turned  in  his  hands  the  hat  he  had  picked  up. 

"The  old  nun  can  go  and  call  the  police,  and 
welcome.  Let  her.  The  police  have  not  sent 
those  women  apart  to  bring  them  together  again. " 

"All  the  same,  you've  given  her  a. bad  beating, 
Jules,"  ventured  the  widow,  one  of  whose  eyes 
was  swollen.  "She  doesn't  move." 

' '  The  good-for-nothing !  She  was  running  away ! 
A  woman  who  has  been  fed  a  whole  year  in  this 
house!" 

"But  look  how  white  she  is!" 

"When  she  has  paid  me  what  she  owes  me,  I 
shall  let  her  go;  not  before." 

"Suppose  she  shouldn't  come  to  again?" 

"Don't  give  us  any  sentiment,  old  mother," 
he  returned,  pushing  her  roughly  away.  Out- 
side, in  the  courtyard,  in  the  narrow  shadow  of 
his  house,  he  gave  orders  to  the  woman,  who, 
suddenly  grown  "reasonable,"  made  haste  to 
answer  to  his  directions:  "Yes,  my  boy;  I  shall 
see  to  that;  I  shall  take  care;  I  shall  go;  that 
shall  be  done."  When  he  left  her,  he  took  care 
to  walk  down  the  hill  without  hurry,  so  that  he 
might  be  seen  to  be  afraid  of  no  one,  but  to  take 
his  own  time,  and  to  go  where  he  pleased,  more 
than  ever  the  king  of  the  district.  He  crossed  the 
bridge  over  the  Cadereau,  and  entered  the  town. 
As  soon  as  his  back  was  turned,  all  the  population 


220  THE  NUN 

of  Montauri  ran  to  his  cottage — men,  women,  and 
children,  who  had  all  been  watching.  They  had 
seen  him  carrying  home  Pascale.  What  had  be- 
come of  her?  Had  he  killed  her  outright?  ' '  I  am 
going  to  see,"  said  one.  "So  am  I — make  haste," 
called  another.  And  one  averred  that  Prayou  was 
gone  for  the  police,  and  one,  for  a  doctor. 

They  tried  to  get  in  by  Madame  Prayou's  door, 
but  she  sent  them  away;  they  turned  the  flank 
of  the  house,  therefore,  and  came  by  the  waste 
land  behind  into  Jules  Prayou's  own  abode.  They 
were  excited  and  angry.  Madame  Cabeirol,  look- 
ing like  a  little  Greek  fury,  was  the  first,  and  then 
came  Madame  Lantosque,  who  still  held  the  wood- 
en spoon  with  which  she  had  been  stirring  the 
soup  at  home;  then  Madame  Mayol,  then  two 
old  women,  one  of  them  with  a  crutch.  In  the 
passage-room  there  were  only  a  table  and  a  box, 
and  there  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  lay  the  motion- 
less figure.  The  women  gathered  to  look  at  her. 
Some  other  passion  than  curiosity  was  in  their 
faces. 

"Come  and  see!  Do  you  think  she  is  bleeding? 
Yes,  there's  some  blood — I  am  sure  there  is. 
She  has  been  wounded." 

"Better  lift  her,  poor  thing." 

"Lift  her,  do  you  say?  Do  you  mean  to  say 
you  pity  her?" 

"That  I  do.  I  think  she  moved.  How  white 
her  hand  is — as  white  as  lather." 

"Well,  then,  go  and  lift  her  yourself.  I  won't 
touch  her.  A  nun  out  of  her  convent — I  call  it 
disgusting." 


THE  NUN  221 

"I  shall  not  touch  her  either."  "Nor  I." 
"Nor  I."  Men  were  among  the  speakers. 

"She  has  only  got  what  she  deserved." 

The  shrill  voice  of  Madame  Cabeirol  screamed: 
"She  is  a  horrid  woman!  And  she  gave  herself 
the  airs  of  a  lady!  When  I  think  that  just  now 
I  was  helping  her  with  the  linen !  Well,  bleed,  my 
girl,  or  die  if  you  like.  I  know  now  what  you  are, 
the  lowest  of  the  low.  Oh,  yes,  you  can  hear  me. 
You  are  just  pretending  not  to  understand,  but 
you  understand  well  enough.  You  are  a  disgrace ! ' ' 

"A  shame  to  the  whole  of  Montauri,"  cried  a 
workman  tragically;  he  had  left  his  luncheon. 
And  the  wretched  man,  who  found  it  hard  to 
pay  his  rent,  pushed  forward  to  the  foot  of  the 
stair,  close  to  the  poor  ghastly  figure.  "You 
won't  find  me  handing  over  money  to  you  again, 
you  wretch!"  he  shouted.  And,  as  though  the 
man's  insult  had  been  a  signal,  all  Pascale's 
neighbours  thronged  into  the  passage.  All  spoke 
at  once,  some  to  revile  her,  some  to  say  merely: 
"Leave  her  alone,  don't  torment  the  woman." 
Protector,  defender,  there  was  none.  Some  lifted 
her  arm  and  let  it  fall  again  to  see  whether  she 
were  conscious;  others  pushed  her  with  a  foot; 
others  merely  stared  at  her  in  their  contempt. 
Jealousies,  obscure  rancours,  human  stupidity  in- 
capable of  withstanding  an  example,  had  a  part  in 
this  cruelty;  but  the  chief  motive  at  work  in  the 
hearts  of  these  people  was  doubtless  vengeance 
for  the  betrayal  of  a  divine  ideal. 

The  place  was  still  thronged  when  a  voice  cried : 
"Here's  Prayou  back  again!"  It  was  not  so,  but 


222  THE  NUN 

the  crowd  dissolved.  Those  who  had  been  tim- 
orously compassionate  were  the  last  to  go,  and 
they  moved  away  backwards.  It  was  then  that 
a  child  came  springing  up  the  steps,  placed  her 
hand  against  the  doorpost,  thrust  a  little  dark 
head  within,  and  peered  round  towards  the  foot 
of  the  stair.  It  was  Delphine  Cabeirol,  to  whom 
the  outcast  had  spoken  in  the  morning. 

"You  filthy  thing,  you!"  she  cried  in  her  fresh, 
childish  voice. 

Then  Pascale  lifted  her  head  with  difficulty,  and 
turned  her  face  to  the  light.  The  child  fled. 

Pascale  lay  back  again  upon  the  stair  and 
wept.  Long  she  wept  alone. 

The  sun  that  day  was  declining  when  some  one 
cautiously  drew  near.  It  was  Prayou's  mother, 
and  she  was  uneasy,  and  came  to  look.  She 
raised  the  fallen  figure,  and  propped  it  with  her 
two  hands  against  the  shoulders. 

"Come,  come,  Pascale,"  she  said;  "no  non- 
sense." 

But  when  she  met  those  eyes  she  was  afraid. 
She  withdrew  her  hands. 

"Don't  you  want  to  go  to  your  room?" 

The  pallid  face,  stained  with  blood  and  tears, 
remained  rigid.  But  Pascale  looked  at  the 
woman,  with  the  wild  and  profound  look  of  a 
hunted  and  wounded  animal,  and  her  eyes  moved, 
following  the  motions  of  her  enemy.  The  woman 
was  aware  that  she  had  before  her  something 
terrible,  a  creature  brought  to  despair,  on  the 
yonder  side  of  revolt,  no  pleader  for  compassion, 
a  creature  whom  extremity  of  misfortune  has 


THE  NUN  223 

turned  into  a  judge,  and  who  condemns  in  si- 
lence, and  has  God  beyond. 

"You  don't  want  me  to  touch  you?  As  you 
like.  I'm  off.  You  see  what  you  get  by  going 
against  him.  A  nice  state  he  has  put  you  into! 
And  he's  still  in  a  rage.  What  did  you  want  to 
run  away  for?  You — a  girl  we've  kept,  who  has 
wanted  for  nothing." 

She  took  on  a  coaxing  manner. 

"  Listen  to  me,  now.  I'll  undertake  to  speak 
to  him — shall  I?  I  know  he's  violent,  but  once 
it's  over,  it's  over.  Come,  your  old  Cousin 
Prayou  will  take  your  part,  if  you'll  just  promise 
not  to  do  it  again." 

The  bleeding  lips  articulated:  "I  shall  not 
stay!" 

"  Where  will  you  go  then?  Not  into  the  town 
— you  know  well  enough  he  has  forbidden  that." 

Pascale  struggled  to  her  feet.  With  her  hand 
against  the  wall  she  stumbled  to  the  back  door. 
The  woman  followed,  repeating: 

"Where  are  you  going?  I  want  to  know 
where?" 

Pascale  pointed  to  the  far  corner  of  the  waste 
ground. 

"Ah!  you  are  going  that  way,  are  you?  You 
have  not  had  enough,  I  suppose?  Do  as  you  like. 
I'm  going  in.  It's  hot  enough  to  kill  one  out 
of  doors." 

But  she  did  not  go  in  until  she  had  seen  Pascale 
stop  at  the  far  end  of  the  open  space.  Pascale 
went  slowly  in  the  stifling  heat  among  the  stones 
and  the  dusty  tufts  of  dry  grass.  She  held  one 


224  THE  NUN 

hand  to  her  fair  hair,  at  the  place  where  her  head 
had  struck  the  staircase.  She  made  for  the 
shade,  far  from  the  Prayous'  house.  There  were 
old  broken  walls  on  that  side,  holding  hi  the  soil 
of  the  nearest  olive-grounds.  She  sat  down,  with 
no  purpose  or  thought  except  that  she  would  rest 
awhile  at  the  end  of  her  chain.  All  the  houses 
had  closed  their  doors  and  windows  to  the  west, 
against  the  late  hot  sun,  and  Pascale  was  feeling 
a  little  relief  because  there  were  some  fifty  yards 
between  her  and  these  people,  all  of  whom  had 
made  her  suffer,  when  a  woman  coming  from  the 
city  entered  the  space  of  waste  land.  Pascale 
knew  her.  She  was  the  widow  Rioul,  in  her  black 
dress,  with  her  smooth  white  hair,  her  air  of  dignity 
and  quiet,  and  her  knitting — the  black  stockings 
always  on  her  needles,  the  ball  of  worsted  in  her 
pocket.  She  stopped  close  to  Pascale,  as  a  neigh- 
bour might,  for  a  chat.  Pascale,  sitting  bent  over 
her  knees,  did  not  accost  her,  but  she  had  to 


answer. 

u 


Listen,  Madame  Pascale,  I  want  to  speak  to 
you." 

"It's  a  long  while  since  you  spoke  to  me  at 
all.  Leave  me  alone." 

"I  did  not  speak  because  you  would  not  let 
me.  But  I  loved  you,  my  child.  It  was  I  who 
told  Sister  Justine  about  you.  It  was  I  who 
called  her.  It  was  I  who  showed  her  this  morning 
the  way  to  Montauri,  and  who  got  her  away  from 
the  wretched  people  down  by  the  tank.  They 
soon  let  her  go  when  they  saw  me  taking  her  part. 
I  saw  her  safe  to  the  station.  I  have  come  with 


THE  NUN  225 

a  message  from  her.  She  is  at  Lyons  and  she 
expects  you  there." 

The  widow  whispered,  as  though  the  olive  trees 
could  hear  her. 

"I  promised  her,"  she  said,  "that  you  would 
go  to-night." 

Pascale  slowly  shook  her  head,  but  did  not 
raise  it. 

"I  tried  this  morning.  I  am  lost,  you  see, 
quite  lost." 

"I  know  that  his  friends  are  everywhere;  but 
I  have  friends  about  too.  Promise  to  do  what  I 
ask,  and  I  will  save  you,  Madame  Pascale." 

Gently,  seeing  that  Pascale  was  listening,  she 
unfolded  her  plan.  She  knew  in  the  country 
near  by,  beyond  the  Saint  Cesaire  road  on  the 
slope  opposite  the  Puech  du  Teil,  a  small  proprietor 
who  lived  on  his  farm  all  the  year  round.  She 
had  given  him  notice.  At  night  she  would  take 
Pascale  across  the  orchards,  where  they  would 
meet  no  one,  to  the  farm.  Starting  from  the 
Nimes  station  would  be  out  of  the  question. 
Pascale  would  be  hidden  and  guarded  at  the  farm. 
She  was  expected  there.  Then,  at  daybreak, 
Cosse,  the  farmer,  would  take  her  across  to  the 
station  of  Caveirac,  or  perhaps  to  some  place  still 
more  distant. 

"At  what  time  will  the  train  be  at  Caveirac?" 
asked  Pascale. 

The  widow,  happy  to  find  that  her  plan  was  ac- 
cepted, said  warmly: 

"Thank  you,  thank  you  for  your  confidence. 
Thank  you  for  being  willing  to  live.  How  happy 


226  THE  NUN 

your  sisters  will  be!  Listen  now  to  the  end; 
but  I  must  be  quick,  for  I  believe  that  some  one  is 
watching  us,  whether  Prayou  or  one  of  his  spies. 
As  soon  as  it  is  dark  I  shall  be  at  the  far  end  of  the 
olive  orchard,  near  the  Saint  Cesaire  road,  on  this 
side,  in  the  enclosure  where  hiding  is  easy ;  I  will 
take  you  through  the  openings  in  the  orchard 
walls.  And  now  you  must  have  a  little  food." 

"In  his  house?"  asked  Pascale. 

"In  his  mother's  house,  yes." 

"I  shall  not  go  back  there." 

"Ah!  you  will  go  because  you  will  need  some 
strength;  I  cannot  take  you  to  my  own  room; 
something  would  be  suspected." 

"I  won't  go;  I  won't  go  back." 

"Madame  Pascale,  if  I  ask  you  to  go  back  and 
to  eat  their  bread — as  a  sacrifice— 

The  old  woman  went  on  her  way,  to  all  ap- 
pearance absorbed  in  her  knitting.  But  the  words 
she  had  used  were  such  as  had  once  been  pow- 
erful over  the  soul  of  Pascale,  and  they  still  had 
power. 

The  evening  followed  the  burning  day.  The 
waste  ground  was  as  hot  as  an  oven  from  which 
the  red  charcoal  has  just  been  withdrawn.  The 
glow  was  gone  from  the  country.  Nothing  caught 
the  light  except  the  stone  pines  on  the  high  hill, 
and  they  held  sheaves  of  rays  from  the  west. 
Pascale  stood  up. 

When  she  entered  the  kitchen,  Madame  Prayou, 
surprised,  paused  in  her  peeling  and  slicing  of 
onions. 

"What  have  you  come  for?"  she  asked. 


THE  NUN  227 

"Give  me  a  towel,  I  want  to  wash." 

"In  here?" 

"Yes,  in  here." 

"All  right,  you  can." 

"And  let  me  have  some  bread  as  well.  I  have 
eaten  nothing  since  morning." 

"Now  you  are  talking  sense.  You  have  come 
round,  I  am  glad  to  see." 

Pascale  said  no  more.  When  she  had  washed 
away  the  traces  of  blood,  of  tears,  and  of  dust 
from  her  face,  and  had  fastened  up  her  hair, 
shaken  loose  by  the  fall,  she  stood  by  the  window 
that  opened  on  the  road  of  Montauri,  and  watched 
the  woman,  who  was  cutting  a  piece  of  bread. 
She  loathed  that  bread.  But  she  said  to  herself:, 
"I  promised,  I  will  keep  my  word."  The  mother 
of  Jules  Prayou  doubtless  had  some  sense  of  the 
significance  of  this  daily  action,  on  this  one  day. 
She  cut  the  bread  and  held  it  at  arm's  length,  and 
saw  that  Pascale,  having  taken  it,  did  not  eat  it, 
but  held  it  awhile  in  her  hand.  At  last,  leaning 
against  the  window-sill,  she  raised  the  bread  to 
her  mouth  and  ate. 

The  widow  looked  on;  puzzled  by  the  novel 
land  of  submissiveness  in  her  servant,  she  began 
a  monologue  in  which  protestations  of  solicitude 
for  the  girl's  health  were  mingled  with  a  few 
adroit  questions  regarding  the  work  to  be  done 
in  the  house  on  the  morrow,  on  the  following 
day,  ten  days  later.  Pascale  heard  not  a  word. 
She  ate,  feeling  no  hunger.  She  was  thinking 
of  the  hour  when  she  must  go,  of  the  widow 
Rioul  who  might  turn  traitress,  of  the  road,  the 


228  THE  NUN 

meeting-place  to  be  found,  of  her  own  battered 
body  that  could  hardly  stand. 

Suddenly  her  shoulders  shrank  against  the 
wall;  her  eyes  wore  again  their  look  of  terror. 
Some  one  was  coming  up  the  street,  and  her  im- 
pulse was  to  hide.  But  by  effort  of  will  she  re- 
mained at  the  window,  and  ate  what  bread  was 
left,  so  that  Prayou  might  see  her  eat  it. 

He  saw  her,  with  the  silent  smile  of  a  man  who 
never  doubted  of  success,  but  whose  success  had 
been  unexpectedly  complete.  He  did  not  speak 
to  Pascale;  but,  seeing  his  mother  busy  over  the 
supper,  he  said  to  her: 

"  Don't  expect  me  this  evening,  mother.  There's 
a  bull-fight  at  Aries  to-morrow,  and  I  am  off  to- 
night with  two  friends  of  mine 

With  his  orator's  or  actor's  gesture  he  swept 
his  hand  towards  the  foot  of  the  hill,  where  loitered 
a  couple  of  men.  Pascale  looked  straight  before 
her,  but  she  felt,  she  felt  Jules  Prayou's  hatred 
heavy  upon  her. 

"That's  right,  my  boy,"  said  the  mother. 
"Good-bye  till  to-morrow  night.  I  shall  take 
care  of  Pascale." 

The  man  went  out. 

It  was  then  that  Pascale  looked  at  him.  She 
followed  him  with  her  eyes.  She  noticed  that  he 
had  his  every-day  clothes,  the  blue  suit,  old  and 
stained,  that  he  had  worn  in  the  morning. 

From  her  place  the  widow  had  not  ceased  to 
watch  Pascale.  Seeing  her  quiet,  seeing  her  eyes 
upon  the  man  as  he  went,  she  thought:  "I 
was  a  fool  to  be  anxious.  She  has  eaten  our 


THE  NUN  229 

bread  in  his  presence.  There  will  be  no  more 
trouble." 

She  was  wrong.  Pascale's  voluntary  humilia- 
tion had  begun  the  work  of  her  deliverance. 

Slowly  came  the  darkness.  Fragments  of  the 
rays  of  day,  the  smouldering  of  light,  filled  the 
evening  air.  The  smallest  details  of  the  distant 
houses  of  Montauri  were  still  visible,  for  the  equal 
light  came  from  all  quarters  of  an  untroubled 
sky;  and  the  world  was  full  of  witnesses.  People 
were  out  in  the  gardens.  All  along  the  street  there 
were  voices,  and  those  of  women  and  children 
pierced  the  still  evening,  arrow-sharp.  The  men 
were  drinking  in  the  wine-shops.  Farther  off, 
on  the  side  where  stood  the  slaughter-houses, 
sounded  intermittently  the  flute  of  a  butcher  boy 
who  was  practising  for  a  public  ball;  the  harlots 
of  the  town  were  to  dance  to  his  music  at  night. 

Towards  nine  o'clock  Pascale  leaned  out  again. 
She  saw  the  olive  trees,  in  spite  of  the  transparence 
of  the  night,  massed  together  hi  the  dusk,  like 
smoke  or  rolling  clouds. 

"I  am  going  to  bed,"  she  said,  and  rose. 

The  widow,  dozing,  roused  herself  and  replied: 
"Yes,  be  quick;  you  should  have  gone  before." 

Pascale  began,  involuntarily,  to  walk  with  a 
stealthy  silence.  She  crossed  the  courtyard,  hid 
herself  for  a  few  moments  in  the  passage,  then 
opened  the  back  door  and  stood  alone,  afraid  of 
what  she  was  about  to  do,  in  the  pearly  night  that 
covered  the  hill.  The  way  across  the  waste  was 
all  unsheltered.  She  skirted  it,  keeping  by  the 
garden  walls,  and  when  she  reached  the  upper  end, 


230  THE  NUN 

across  which  ran  a  terrace,  she  climbed  it  by  means 
of  broken  stones,  and  stood  among  the  trees. 
Hiding  for  a  moment  behind  a  stem  she  looked 
back  and  saw  that  she  had  not  been  followed. 
Profoundly  peaceful  was  the  summer  night;  the 
butcher's  little  flute  had  ceased ;  the  sky  was  thick 
with  stars.  Pascale  went  up  by  a  row  of  trees, 
then  turned  to  her  left.  The  whole  olive  country 
before  her  looked  like  a  vague  blue  sea  set  with 
innumerable  islands.  And  from  island  to  island 
went  Pascale,  crossing  quickly,  as  quickly  as 
she  could  in  her  weakness,  shaping  her  course 
towards  the  orchard  corner  where  the  widow 
Rioul  was  to  await  her.  She  reached  an  en- 
closing wall,  and  here,  afraid  to  call,  afraid  of  the 
sound  of  her  feet  among  dry  leaves,  she  paused, 
she  went  to  and  fro  in  search  of  an  outlet.  At 
last  she  found  a  foothold  on  the  branch  of  a 
dead  tree,  raised  herself,  looked  over,  and  there, 
straight  and  thin  as  the  figure  of  a  saint  in  a  church, 
stood  the  widow  among  the  trees. 

' l  Come  qui  ck, "  said  the  woman .  ' '  Thirty  steps 
or  so  to  your  right  you  will  find  a  way  through." 

When  Pascale  had  grasped  her  friend's  hand 
she  grew  braver.  Together  they  made  their 
way  across  the  wide  orchard  down  hill,  and  then 
across  another,  up  hill,  and  stood  on  the  crest  of 
the  second  wave  of  the  billowing  country.  Here 
they  came  upon  the  cross-roads.  The  old  high 
road  to  Saint  Cesaire  was  divided  at  this  point 
by  the  wedge  of  a  thick  wood,  and  thence  formed 
two  curving  ways  sweeping  apart,  widely  diver- 
gent. The  wood  was  enclosed  by  walls,  and  at 


THE  NUN  231 

the  point  of  the  wedge  stood  two  black  cypresses, 
the  only  tall  trees  on  the  whole  hill-top ;  they  alone 
pierced  the  stars.  It  was  a  solitary  place,  for  the 
little  houses — the  orchard  cottages  peculiar  to  the 
neighbourhood,  the  mazets — were  never  inhabited 
except  on  Sundays.  The  widow,  finding  the 
breach  she  knew  of  in  the  orchard  wall,  put  her 
head  cautiously  through,  and  listened.  Then  she 
returned  to  fetch  Pascale. 

" There  is  no  danger,"  she  said.  "You  have 
nothing  more  to  fear,  you  are  saved.  The  farm 
is  close  by." 

Nothing  stirred  as  they  turned  the  corner 
where  stood  the  cypresses,  and  took  a  steep  path 
leading  them  to  a  gate  of  rusty  iron  bars,  by 
which  hung  the  handle  of  a  bell. 

"We  must  not  ring,"  said  the  widow,  "I  can 
get  in."  She  unfastened  the  gate  and  pushed  it 
open.  Pascale  found  herself  in  an  enclosure, 
with  olive  trees  in  the  foreground,  and  further 
down  a  pasture  that  reached  to  the  bottom  of 
the  little  valley.  Opposite  rose  the  hill  called 
the  Puech  du  Teil.  The  farmhouse  was  at  hand, 
and  the  widow  knocked  at  its  door.  There  was 
no  reply ;  but  soon  the  two  women  standing  close 
together  could  hear  a  sour  voice  chiding  in  patois: 

"Promised,  have  you?  Then  you  had  no  busi- 
ness to  promise.  You  ought  to  have  told  me. 
I  don't  want  a  woman  of  that  kind  in  my  house. 
Not  to  speak  of  the  danger." 

"Be  quiet,  Louise,"  replied  a  man,  "I  am  not 
going  to  leave  our  old  friend  standing  outside; 
nor  the  other,  either." 


232  THE  NUN 

A  dragging  footstep  came  to  the  door;  the 
bolt  was  drawn,  and  an  old,  bent  man  with  a 
fine  face  baked  and  rebaked  by  seventy  southern 
summers  drew  back  to  let  the  women  pass  in. 
They  paused  on  the  threshold. 

"Go  in,  Madame  Pascale,"  said  the  widow: 
"I  am  leaving  you  with  good  people." 

" Leaving  me?"  faltered  Pascale. 

"I  must." 

"I  beg  you,  I  beg  you  to  stay  with  me.  Oh, 
the  night  will  be  so  long!  I  am  afraid,  I  am 
dreadfully  afraid ! " 

Pascale  put  her  arms  about  the  neck  of  this 
one  friend,  the  only  creature  who  had  loved  her 
in  the  time  now  at  last  at  an  end.  "Stay  with 
me.  You  can  go  back  to-morrow,  when  we  leave. " 

But  she  heard  the  quiet  voice  in  her  ear:  "It 
is  for  your  sake  I  am  going  back.  There  would 
be  too  much  wondering  at  my  absence  all  night. 
Something  might  be  suspected.  Let  me  go;  do 
this — it  is  one  more  sacrifice " 

The  two  women  kissed  each  other.  Pascale 
went  in  alone.  The  door  was  closed  and  the  bolt 
was  shot. 

"Compose  yourself,  Madame  Pascale,"  said  the 
old  man.  "Why,  you  are  as  white  as  a  ghost. 
There's  nothing  to  be  afraid  of.  You're  among 
friends.  Among  friends,  isn't  she,  Louise?  And 
in  the  morning,  by  the  first  light,  we'll  be  off 
together  to  the  station  at  Caveirac." 

Pascale  had  walked  into  the  middle  of  a  wide 
hall  lighted  by  a  small  petroleum  lamp  at  the 
further  end  on  the  chimney-piece.  A  few  chairs, 


THE  NUN  233 

a  table,  and  an  old  cupboard  were  all  the  furniture. 
Working  clothes  hung  on  the  walls,  with  tools, 
whips,  and  harness. 

"As  long  as  a  woman  isn't  married,"  said  the 
old  man,  "she's  got  a  right  to  run  away;  that's 
how  I  look  at  it.  You  sit  down  and  make  yourself 
comfortable.  A  little  glass  of  carthagene  would 
do  you  no  harm.  Will  you  have  one?" 

But  Pascale  walked  no  further.  She  was 
aware  of  the  anger  and  contempt  of  a  woman 
seated  by  the  fireplace,  out  of  the  circle  of  lamp 
light.  Louise,  much  younger  than  her  husband, 
had  hard  black  eyes,  and  they  wore  a  look  that 
bade  the  stranger  begone.  Yet  she  had  not 
spoken.  Cosse,  much  embarrassed,  went  on  with 
his  monologue,  set  chairs,  opened  the  cupboard, 
and  fumbled  inside.  There  was  a  clatter  of 
glasses.  He  went  to  the  table.  "We  are  good 
people,  Madame  Pascale,  good  people,  who  are 
not  going  to  leave  you  in  trouble.  There's  a 
right  and  there's  a  wrong,  that's  how  I  look  at  it. 
I  say,  Louise,  where  have  you  put " 

He  stopped,  startled. 

Some  one  had  lifted  the  latch  and  had  driven 
hard  against  the  door.  The  bolt  held.  The 
farmer  and  his  wife  stood  close  together;  Pascale 
listened,  ceasing  to  breathe.  So  suddenly  deep 
was  the  silence  that  the  cigalas  were  audible, 
chirping  in  the  night. 

"He  is  there,"  then  said  Pascale.  "My  poor 
people,  it's  all  over." 

The  door  was  shaken  a  second  time  with 
violence,  and  the  voice  of  Prayou  called,  "Open, 


234  THE  NUN 

old  Cosse,  or  I  shall  batter  it  in.  Pascale  is  in 
your  house." 

"Don't  go,"  breathed  the  farmer's  wife;  "don't 
go,  Cosse ;  don't  go  and  get  yourself  killed  on  her 
account.  He  doesn't  want  you,  he  wants  her." 
And  to  Pascale  she  said,  "Go,  then,  go;  why 
don't  you  go?" 

Pascale  was  shrunk,  she  looked  quite  small; 
her  eyes,  her  whole  soul,  were  on  the  door — the 
door  upon  which  her  fate  was  knocking. 

"Coming,  coming,"  cried  the  old  man. 

He  put  aside  his  wife's  detaining  hands,  he 
hobbled  to  the  wall  on  which  hung  the  tools  and 
harness.  Pascale  followed  him  with  her  eyes. 
A  storm  was  within  her.  The  instinctive  love 
of  life  strove  there,  and  her  youth,  and  her 
strength,  though  it  had  failed  under  so  much 
agony.  The  old  man  went  before  her.  He 
grasped  from  the  wall  the  handle  of  a  pick-axe, 
but  he  had  not  yet  freed  it  from  the  pile  of  clothes 
hanging  from  the  same  hook,  when  Pascale 
stopped  him. 

"Leave  it  alone,  I  am  going.  He  would  hurt 
you,"  she  said. 

"And  what  about  you?" 

She  answered:  "He  can  do  me  no  more  harm 
— no  more  harm  now." 

"Are  you  going  to  open  that  door?"  asked  the 
voice. 

The  old  man  made  another  effort  to  go  forward, 
but  Pascale  barred  the  way.  Standing  before  him 
she  made  her  resolution  known. 

"God  orders  me  to  go  in  your  place.     I  have 


THE  NUN  235 

sinned  against  Him,  and  now  He  is  going  to 
forgive  me." 

Next  she  was  running  to  the  door,  and  as  she 
ran  she  threw  over  her  head,  unconsciously 
preparing  for  the  night  air  outside,  the  shawl 
she  had  carried  on  her  arm.  She  undid  the  bolt. 
The  couple  within  saw  a  square  of  glimmering 
blue  night;  they  saw  a  man  seizing  Pascale  and 
hauling  her  out;  then  the  square  of  blue  again, 
the  night,  their  olive  trees.  And  they  heard  the 
feet  of  Prayou  and  of  Pascale  hurrying  up  the 
path.  The  man  had  seized  her  by  the  waist. 
She  struggled;  at  moments  she  lost  her  footing, 
at  moments  he  carried  her.  So  they  came  to  the 
iron-barred  gate.  There  he  relaxed  his  grip. 

' '  Now  let  us  have  it  out,  Sister!  and  take  care — 
take  care  of  your  skin!" 

She  turned  on  the  path  and  ran. 

"What,  again!"  he  cried. 

She  had  no  strength  but  the  strength  of  terror. 
She  ran  up  the  narrow  path  leading  to  the  high 
road,  and  the  stones  rolled  and  gave  way  under 
her  feet,  and  brambles  caught  her  gown.  One 
only  hope  she  had — to  reach  the  place  where  the 
road  divided ;  there  might  chance  to  be  passers-by. 
And  she  felt  by  some  instinct  that  the  man  would 
stab  her  less  readily  if  she  kept  the  left  of  the 
path,  somewhat  out  of  the  easiest  reach  of  his 
right  hand.  He  ran,  trotting  without  effort  or 
huny,  keeping  up  with  the  girl  who  strained  and 
stumbled  as  she  fled.  Twice  he  overtook  her, 
lifting  his  hand  as  though  the  stroke  would  be 
then.  But  he  held  that  murderous  hand ;  he  saw 


236  THE  NUN 

that  she  still  had  a  little  breath,  and  he  knew  that 
she  still  could  scream.  He  let  her  run. 

"Will  you  come  home  with  me?" 

"Never,  never!" 

"Will  you  come  home?  If  you  won't  I  shall 
kill  you." 

The  second  time  he  waited  for  no  reply.  She 
knew  that  he  was  feeling  in  his  pocket.  She  knew 
then,  she  knew  that  she  was  lost,  and  she  could 
not  scream.  They  were  now  near  the  top  of 
the  hill,  and  the  road  lay  across  their  path. 
With  a  last  effort  Pascale  reached  the  crest  and 
the  two  cypresses,  and  looked,  looked  in  vain  for 
a  figure  of  man  or  woman  in  sight.  There  was 
none.  Prayou  had  let  her  gain  a  little  distance 
in  advance  of  him,  and  now  she  heard  him  behind 
her  running  at  last  in  earnest.  He  was  coming 
up,  and  coming  up  on  the  left.  Before  he  reached 
her  she  sobbed.  Raising  her  hands  over  the  dis- 
tant city,  she  whispered  her  last  broken  words : 

"Miserere  mei,  Deus." 

Between  her  shoulders  the  knife  struck  and 
pierced  her  through,  pierced  her  to  the  breast. 

Carried  down  by  the  violence  of  the  stroke,  the 
body  rolled  to  the  orchard  wall,  to  the  place  where 
the  road  turned  downhill  towards  Nimes,  and 
near  to  the  little  wood  that  split  the  way. 

Prayou  leapt,  wrenched  out  the  knife,  let  fall 
the  head  with  the  eyes  still  rolling  in  their  sockets, 
ran  on  the  road  that  followed  the  line  of  the  hill- 
summit,  vaulted  over  a  wall,  sprang  from  terrace 
to  terrace  down  the  slope,  and  vanished  into  the 
solitary  country  beyond. 


THE  NUN  237 

Pascale  was  already  dead.  She  lay  on  her 
back,  with  the  rush  of  her  blood  beneath  her. 
It  flowed  into  the  furrows  made  by  old  storms 
and  floods  in  the  now  dry  soil.  No  longer  smooth 
was  your  tender  mouth,  poor  girl;  your  golden 
eyes  saw  not  through  the  pupils  that  were  wide 
towards  the  innumerable  stars.  The  shawl  of 
white  wool,  drawn  over  those  brows  and  one  pale 
cheek,  had  some  semblance  of  the  veil.  The  two 
cypresses  kept  watch  like  tapers  in  a  sanctuary. 

At  break  of  day  a  milkman's  cart,  coming  from 
the  country,  reached  the  summit  of  the  hill. 
The  horse,  aware  of  the  scent  of  death,  shied  and 
turned;  a  boy  leapt  out  on  the  road  to  catch 
the  reins.  It  was  then  that  he  saw  the  body  of 
Pascale. 

At  the  same  moment  there  was  a  cry,  for  his 
sister,  now  also  afoot,  was  running  to  the  place 
where  lay  the  dead.  Together  they  raised  the 
shoulders  from  the  ground,  and  then  they  saw  the 
blood,  and  it  was  fresh. 

"Don't  touch  her,  because  of  the  police,"  said 
the  young  man.  "No  one  must  touch  a  body 
before  they  come.  I'll  fetch  them.  Stay  you 
here,  Marie,  and  keep  guard." 

It  was  four  o'clock.  The  girl  sat  by  the  mur- 
dered head;  she  was  afraid.  There  was  a  morning 
cold  in  the  air.  At  short  intervals  she  rose, 
fancying  that  she  heard  steps  behind  the  walls. 
Then  she  composed  herself  and  thought  of  the 
young  dead,  and  looked  with  pity  upon  that  pallid 
face.  This  girl  was  of  her  own  age;  she  knew 
nothing  of  the  stranger,  except  only  her  misfort- 


238  THE  NUN 

une.  She  looked  at  the  face  and  at  the  hair,  of 
a  colour  so  rare  and  so  beautiful,  and  her  com- 
passion grew,  and  a  tender  friendliness  crept  into 
her  heart.  Of  old  many  had  felt  the  same  for 
the  living  Pascale. 

As  time  went  on,  the  girl  on  her  watch  brought 
forth  her  rosary.  "I  don't  know,"  she  thought, 
"  whether  this  poor  thing  was  of  my  religion  or 
not ;  and  she  may  very  likely  have  been  a  woman 
of  the  town.  It  does  not  matter  now ;  I  will  pray 
for  her." 

The  early  broad  flood  of  day  opened  upon  the 
hill  of  Montauri  and  upon  the  long  succession  of 
its  neighbour  hills.  It  touched  the  hands,  the 
chin,  the  cheek  of  Pascale.  But  the  fair  eye- 
lashes moved  not,  and  the  open  eyes  were  glassy 
towards  the  sky  from  which  the  stars  were 
gone. 

At  about  that  time  the  procureur  of  the  Repub- 
lic, having  received  notice  from  the  mayor's  office, 
whither  the  milkman  had  first  betaken  himself, 
hastened  to  the  cab-stand  on  the  boulevard 
Amiral  Courbet,  and  gave  orders  that  he  should  be 
driven  "to  the  scene  of  the  crime."  Agents  of 
police,  the  commissary,  and  a  doctor  were  already 
on  the  road.  And  in  that  carriage  the  body  of 
Pascale  was  brought  to  Nimes.  It  was  received 
at  the  hospital  on  the  Montpellier  road,  the  place 
where  Pascale  in  former  years  had  spoken  of  her 
own  sensitiveness:  "I  cannot  bear  to  look  at  a 
wound  or  even  to  hear  about  it."  The  gates 
were  opened  wide.  The  carriage  stopped,  and  two 
men  bore  the  body  between  them  beyond  the 


THE  NUN  239 

principal  building  into  a  low  amphitheatre  that 
served  as  a  dissecting-room. 

The  news  of  the  murder  had  now  roused  the 
city.  The  magistrates  had  drawn  up  the  war- 
rants against  the  fugitive.  Information  was  at 
hand — it  abounded  and  superabounded.  The  in- 
habitants of  the  western  district  were  ready  to 
tell  all  they  knew  to  the  journalists,  the  police,  the 
porters  at  the  hospital:  "I  knew  her;  so  did  I, 
and  I;  she  was  a  near  neighbour,"  and  so  forth. 

During  the  afternoon  all  the  dwellers  at  Mon- 
tauri  had  passed  through  the  large  hall  in  which 
Pascale  now  lay;  many  had  wept,  many  had 
knelt;  all  had  felt  the  pity  of  the  living  for  the 
past  sorrows  of  the  dead;  and  some  had  re- 
proached themselves  in  silence  for  their  insults 
against  one  in  grief;  she  was  in  grief  no  more, 
but  she  could  no  longer  forgive  them.  Two 
women,  one  leaning  on  the  other,  entered  that 
death  chamber — the  widow  Rioul  and  Sister 
Justine.  The  old  Superior,  summoned  by  tele- 
gram, had  come  from  Lyons,  and  on  the  way  from 
the  station  she  had  hardly  heard  the  story  told 
by  her  friend.  "My  child  is  dead,"  she  wept; 
"my  little  girl,  my  Pascale!"  She  saw  nothing, 
nor  did  she  hear  the  shop-keepers  at  their  doors, 
who  said:  "Look,  do  you  remember?  That  is 
the  Mother,  the  nun!"  She  opened  her  arms  at 
the  door,  as  she  had  opened  them  not  many  hours 
before  to  the  lost  one,  and  then  she  turned,  she 
faltered,  she  hid  her  face  against  the  charitable 
breast  at  her  side.  Before  them  lay  the  body  of 
Pascale,  stretched  upon  one  of  three  sloping 


240  THE  NUN 

tables.  A  sheet  was  spread  upon  it  up  to  the 
breast,  leaving  uncovered  the  neck  that  had  been 
so  slender  and  smooth,  and  was  now  livid  and 
falling  into  hollows  like  sand  when  the  sea  has 
ebbed.  The  hair  was  scattered.  And  there  was 
no  taper  near,  no  flower,  not  a  spray  of  the  box 
blessed  with  holy  water  that  is  put  about  the 
dead ;  not  a  sign  that  any  creature  had  ever  loved 
Pascale.  Only,  at  the  head  of  the  room  was  the 
sign  of  our  common  hope,  the  image  of  Christ  upon 
His  cross.  And  above  the  head  of  the  table  where 
she  lay,  a  large  black-board,  placed  there  long  ago, 
bore  the  inscription:  "We  have  been  what  you 
are ;  and  what  we  are  now,  you,  too,  shall  be." 

The  poor  maternal  heart  felt  such  a  pang  that 
Justine  for  a  moment  could  not  look.  But, 
gathering  her  courage  again,  she  went  up  to  the 
hard  bed  of  her  child,  and  on  the  frozen  forehead 
laid  the  kiss  of  peace.  Then  she  knelt  at  the  head, 
and  the  widow  knelt  at  the  feet.  There  was  no 
sound  except  that  of  the  attendants  walking  im- 
patiently outside,  waiting,  because  closing  time 
had  come. 

When  Sister  Justine  rose  to  her  feet,  she  searched 
in  her  pocket  and  drew  thence  the  large  rosary, 
the  sacred  rosary  that  hangs  at  the  girdle  of  a  nun. 
She  joined  Pascale 's  hands,  she  bound  them  to- 
gether with  the  chain  of  beads,  the  "Our  Father" 
and  "Hail  Mary"  of  so  many  prayers. 

"Sister!  what  are  you  doing?"  whispered  the 
widow.  "Not  your  rosary— surely  you  do  not 
mean— 

"She  lost  hers,"  answered  Justine.    And  she 


THE  NUN  241 

folded  the  little  fingers  of  Pascale  into  the  position 
so  familiar  to  them  in  the  days  of  her  purity. 
Pascale  fingered  the  beads  as  though  she  prayed 
again. 

When  this  was  done,  Justine  stood  awhile,  and 
her  eyes  lingered  on  the  face  she  should  see  no 
more. 

"You  are  like  the  world,"  she  said  to  her 
friend,  "you  are  hard.  But  I  know  that  half  of 
her  sin  does  not  lie  with  her,  but  with  those  who 
drove  her  from  my  arms.  I  know  that  what 
share  was  hers  she  expiated,  and  that  she  volun- 
tarily accepted  death.  My  child  returned  to  God 
when  she  heard  me  speak  the  name  of  Edwige." 


Two  days  more  did  Sister  Justine  remain  in 
the  town,  sent  from  administration  to  adminis- 
tration, from  the  police  to  the  prefect  and  from 
the  prefect  to  the  mayor,  all  in  authority  in  the 
disposal  of  the  dead.  She  pleaded  passionately 
for  her  desire;  a  few  of  the  citizens  were  inter- 
ested in  her  efforts  and  helped  her.  Finally  she 
gained  her  cause.  She  had  leave  to  take  her 
child  to  the  old  cemetery  of  the  weavers  of 
Saint  Irenee,  where  lay  the  Mouvands  of  the 
Croix  Rousse. 

On  the  evening  of  the  fourth  day  the  gates 
of  the  burial  ground  of  Loyasse  were  opened  for 
the  passing  in  of  the  hearse  of  the  poor.  It  went 
down  beyond  the  end  of  the  sycamore  avenue,  to 
the  place  where  the  graves  are  close  together, 
about  a  small  fort,  long  disused,  whence  can  be 


242  THE  NUN 

seen  so  many  hills  and  so  many  villages  upon 
their  slopes.  It  was  still  light.  Four  women  fol- 
lowed Pascale  to  her  grave.  For  one  day  they 
had  clothed  themselves  again  in  the  dress  and  the 
veil  of  their  vows.  They  had  gathered  in  haste 
from  the  utmost  ends  of  France,  and  on  the  mor- 
row they  would  be  gone  thither  again.  They  were 
Sister  Justine,  Sister  Danielle,  Sister  Edwige,  and 
Sister  Leonide.  The  silk  merchant's  little  treas- 
ure, the  legacy  left  to  their  indigence,  had  bought 
the  ground,  had  bought  the  cross  hard  by,  had 
paid  for  the  journey  of  the  mourners,  and  no 
more.  Absolute  poverty,  the  poverty  that  means 
perpetual  separation,  was  before  them  all.  They 
knew  it,  but  their  thoughts  were  not  for  them- 
selves. Elect  souls,  their  thoughts  were  thoughts 
of  lore.  Of  her  they  thought,  for  her  they  prayed, 
whose  face,  whose  eyes,  whose  tenderness,  whose 
appeal,  were  never  to  pass  from  their  memories 
on  earth. 

And  they  prayed  for  the  children  of  their  old 
school,  scattered  now,  and  assuredly  loved  no 
more  as  they  had  once  been  loved;  for  their  old 
district  and  its  well-remembered  poor,  its  weak 
ones,  its  angry  ones,  its  unhappy  ones,  for  all 
the  sufferings  that  it  was  so  keen  a  suffering  to 
be  cut  off  from  helping.  And  they  prayed  for 
those  who,  willing  all  the  evil  or  not,  whether 
cruel,  or  only  ignorant  of  heavenly  and  divine 
and  charitable  things,  had  brought  about  disaster 
and  had  reached  their  ends. 

The  priest  finished  his  service  and  withdrew,  the 
grave-diggers  lowered  the  coffin,  and  the  earth  was 


THE   NUN  243 

cast  upon  her  who  had  been  Pascale.  The  Sisters 
lingered.  Once  again  they  were  "in  community," 
and  thus  in  obedience  they  awaited  orders.  It 
was  only  at  the  word  of  the  Superior  that  they 
took  leave  of  the  grave  and  of  Loyasse.  They 
might  then  be  seen,  close  together,  on  the  road  to 
Saint  Ire'ne'e,  a  little  huddled  group ;  they  talked 
fast,  trying  to  say  many  things  in  the  brief  time 
that  was  theirs.  And  the  joy  of  being  again 
together  overflowed  in  spite  of  the  restraining 
pain. 

On  the  hill  they  paused  to  look  once  more  on 
the  huge  city  before  them;  then,  at  the  corner 
of  a  solitary  lane,  they  kissed  each  other,  without 
tears,  for  this  grief  was  only  for  themselves,  and 
went  their  divided  ways:  two  ways,  then  three, 
then  four.  They  drew  apart  and  passed  into  the 
crowd,  and  offered  to  God,  on  behalf  of  their  dead 
Pascale,  the  pang  of  another  and  a  final  parting. 


THE  END. 


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